Full text of "Tarr"
TARR
TAEE
BY
P. WYNDHAM LEWIS
LONDON
THE EGOIST LTD.
23 ADELPHI TERRACE HOUSE, W.C.
1918
PRINTED AT
THE COMPLETE PRESS
WEST NORWOOD, S.E.
L'ouvrage eust ete moins mien : et sa fin principale et
perfection, c'est d'estre exactement mien. Je corri-
gerois bien line erreur accidentale, dequoy je suis plain,
ainsi que je cours inadvertemment ; mais les im-
perfections qui sont en moy ordinaires et constantes,
ce seroit trahison de les oster. Quand on m'a dit ou
que moy-mesme me suis diet : " Tu es trop espais en
figures : Voila un mot du cru de Gascoingne : Voila
une frase dangereuse (je n'en refuis aucune de celles
qui s'usent emmy les rues franchises ; ceux qui veulent
combattre l'usage par la grammaire se mocquent) :
Voila un discours ignorant : Voila un discours paradoxe :
En voila un trop fol. [Tu te joues souvent, on estimera
que tu dies a droit ce que tu dis a feinte.] — Ouy, fais-je,
mais je corrige les fautes d'inadvertence non celles
de coustume. Est-ce pas ainsi que je parle par tout ?
Me represente-je pas vivement ? suflfit."
Montaigne, Liv, III, oh. v.
Le plus simplement se commettre a nature, c'est
s'y commettre le plus sagement. O que c'est un
doux et mol chevet, et sain, que l'ignorance et
l'incuriosit6, a reposer une teste bien faicte ! "
Montaigne, Liv. II, ch. xiii, " De l'experience."
CONTENTS
FAST
PAGE
PROLOGUE
ix
L BERTHA
1
II. DOOMED, EVIDENTLY. THE "FRAC"
65
IH. BOURGEOIS-BOHEMIANS
120
IV. A JEST TOO DEEP FOR LAUGHTER
150
V.. A MEGRIM OF HUMOUR
199
VI. HOLOCAUSTS
238
VH. SWAGGER SEX
287
EPILOGUE
319
Til
PROLOGUE
This book was begun eight years ago ; so I have
not produced this disagreeable German for the
gratification of primitive partisanship aroused by the
war. On the other hand, having had him up my
sleeve for so long, I let him out at this moment in
the undisguised belief that he is very apposite. I am
incidentally glad to get rid of him. He has been on
my conscience (my conscience as an artist, it is true)
for a long time.
The myriads of Prussian germs, gases, and gan-
grenes released into the air and for the past year
obsessing everything, revived my quiescent creation.
I was moved to vomit Kreisler forth. It is one big
germ more. May the flames of Louvain help to
illuminate (and illustrate) my hapless protagonist !
His misdemeanours too, which might appear too
harshly real at ordinary times, have, just now, too
obvious confirmations to be questioned.
Germany's large leaden brain booms away in the
centre of Europe. Her brain-waves and titanic orches-
trations have broken round us for too long not to have
had their effect. As we never think ourselves, except
a stray Irishman or American, we should long ago
have been swamped had it not been for the sea. The
habits and vitality of the seaman's life and this
vigorous element have protected us intellectually as
the blue water has politically.
In Europe Nietzsche's gospel of desperation, the
beyond-law-man, etc., has deeply influenced the
Paris apache, the Italian Futurist litterateur, the
ix b
Eussian revolutionary. Nietzsche's books are full of
seductions and sugar-plums. They have made " aris-
tocrats " of people who would otherwise have been
only mild snobs or meddlesome prigs ; as much as, if
not more than, other writings, they have made
" expropriators " of what would otherwise merely
have been Arsene Lupins : and they have made an
Over-man of every vulgarly energetic grocer in
Europe. The commercial and military success of
Prussia has deeply influenced the French, as it is
gradually winning the imagination of the English.
The fascination of material power is, for the irreligious
modern man, almost impossible to resist.
There is much to be said for this eruption of greedy,
fleshy, frantic strength in the midst of discouraged
delicacies. Germany has its mission and its beauty.
We will hope that the English may benefit by this
power and passion, without being unnecessarily grate-
ful for a gift that has been bought with best English
blood, and which is not as important or unique as the
great English gift bestowed centuries ago.
As to the Prophet of War, the tone of Nietzsche's
books should have discredited his philosophy. The
modern Prussian advocate of the Aristocratic and
Tyrannic took everybody into his confidence. Then
he would coquet : he gave special prizes. Everybody
couldn't be a follower of his ! No : only the minority :
that is the minority who read his books, which has
steadily grown till it comprises certainly (or would
were it collected together) the ungainliest and
strangest aristocratic caste any world could hope to
see !
Kreisler in this book is a German and nothing else.
Tarr is the individual in the book, and is at the same
time one of the showmen of the author. His private
life, however, I am in no way responsible for. The
long drawn-out struggle in which we find this young
man engaged is illuminated from start to finish by the
hero of it. His theory, put in another way, is that an
artist requires more energy than civilization provides,
or than the civilized mode of life implies : more naivete,
x
freshness, and unconsciousness. So Nature agrees to
force his sensibility and intelligence, on the one hand,
to the utmost pitch, leaving him, on the other, an
uncultivated and ungregarious tract where he can
run wild and renew his forces and remain unspoilt.
Tarr, in his analysis of the anomalies of taste, gives
the key to a crowd of other variants and twists to
which most of the misunderstandings and stupidities
in the deciphering of men are due. He exaggerates
his own departure from perfect sense and taste into
an unnnecessary image of Shame and Disgust, before
which he publicly castigates himself. He is a primitive
figure, coupled with a modern type of flabby sophisti-
cation : that is Bertha Lunkin. The Munich German
Madonna stands nude, too, in the market-place, with
a pained distortion of the face.
Tarr's message, as a character in a book, is this.
Under the camouflage of a monotonous intrigue he
points a permanent opposition, of life outstripped,
and art become lonely. He incidentally is intended
to bring some comfort of analysis amongst less sifted
and more ominous perplexities of our time. His
message, as he discourses, laughs, and picks his way
through the heavily obstructed land of this story, is
the message of a figure of health. His introspection
is not melancholy ; for the strange and, as with his
pedagogic wand he points out, hideously unsatisfactory
figures that are given ingress to his innermost apart-
ments become assimilated at once to a life in which
he has the profoundest confidence. He exalts Life
into a Comedy, when otherwise it is, to his mind,
a tawdry zone of half-art, or a silly Tragedy. Art is
the only thing worth the tragic impulse, for him;
and, as he says, it is his drama. Should art, that is
some finely -adjusted creative will, suddenly become
the drama of the youth infatuated with his maiden,
what different dispositions would have to be made ;
what contradictory tremors would invade his amorous
frame; what portions of that frame would still
smoulder amorously ? These questions Tarr disposes
of to his satisfaction.
xi
So much by way of warning before the curtain rises.
Even if the necessary tragic thrill of misgiving is
caused thereby (or are we going to be "shocked" in
the right way once again, not in Shaw's " bloody,"
schoolgirl way ?), it may extenuate the at times
seemingly needless nucleus of blood and tears.
P. Wyndham Lewis
1915
xn
PART I
BEETHA
CHAPTEE I
Paris hints of sacrifice. — But here we deal with
that large dusty facet known to indulgent and
congruous kind. It is in its capacity of delicious
inn and majestic Baedeker, where western Venuses
twang its responsive streets and hush to soft growl
before its statues, that it is seen. It is not across
its Th6baide that the unscrupulous heroes chase each
other's shadows. They are largely ignorant of all
but their restless personal lives.
Inconceivably generous and naive faces haunt the
Knackfus Quarter. — We are not, however, in a Selim
or Vitagraph camp (though " guns " tap rhythmically
the buttocks). — Art is being studied. — Art is the
smell of oil paint, Henri Murger's Vie de Bolieme,
co'rduroy trousers, the operatic Italian model. But
the poetry, above all, of linseed oil and turpentine.
The Knackfus Quarter is given up to Art. — Letters
and other things are round the corner. — Its rent is
half paid by America. Germany occupies a sensible
apartment on the second floor. A hundred square
yards at its centre is a convenient space, where the
Boulevard du Paradis and Boulevard Pfeifer cross
with their electric trams. — In the middle is a pave-
ment island, like vestige of submerged masonry. —
Italian models festoon it in symmetrical human
groups ; it is also their club. — The Cafe Berne, at
one side, is the club of the " Grands messieurs Du
Berne." So you have the clap-trap and amorphous
Campagnia tribe outside, in the caf£ twenty sluggish
1 A
common-sense Germans, a Vitagraph group or two,
drinking and playing billiards. These are the most
permanent tableaux of this place, disheartening and
admonitory as a Tussaud's of The Flood.
Hobson and Tarr met in the Boulevard du Paradis.
— They met in a gingerly, shuffling fashion. They
had so many good reasons for not slowing down when
they met : crowds of little antecedent meetings all
revivifying like the bacilli of a harmless fever at the
sight of each other : pointing to why they should crush
their hats over their eyes and hurry on, so that it was
a defeat and insanitary to have their bodies shuffling
and gesticulating there. " Why cannot most people,
having talked and annoyed each other once or twice,
rebecome strangers simply? Oh, for multitudes of
divorces in our mceurs, more than the old vexed sex
ones! Ah, yes: ah, yes — !" had not Tarr once put
forward, and Hobson agreed ?
" Have you been back long ? " Tarr asked with
despondent slowness.
" No. I got back yesterday," said Hobson, with
pleasantly twisted scowl.
(" Heavens : One day here only, and lo ! I meet
him.")
"How is London looking, then ! "
" Very much as usual. — I wasn't there the whole
time. — I was in Cambridge last week."
(" I wish you'd go to perdition from time to time,
instead of Cambridge, as it always is, you grim, grim
dog ! " Tarr wished behind the veil.)
They went to the Berne to have a drink.
They sat for some minutes with what appeared a
stately discomfort of self-consciousness, staring in
front of them. — It was really only a dreary, boiling
anger with themselves, with the contradictions of
civilized life, the immense and intricate camouflage
over the hatred that personal diversities engender.
" Phew, phew ! " A tenuous howl, like a subter-
ranean wind, rose from the borderland of their
consciousness. They were there on the point of
2
opening with tired, ashamed fingers, well-worn pages
of their souls, soon to be muttering between their teeth
the hackneyed pages to each other : resentful in
different degrees and disproportionate ways.
And so they sat with this absurd travesty of a
Quaker's meeting : shyness appearing to emanate
masterfully from Tarr. And in another case, with
almost any one but Hobson, it might have been shy-
ness. For Tarr had a gauche, Puritanical ritual of
self, the result of solitary habits. Certain observances
were demanded of those approaching, and quite
gratuitously observed in return. The fetish within —
soul-dweller that is strikingly like wood-dweller, and
who was not often enough disturbed to have had
sylvan shyness mitigated — would still cling to these
forms. Sometimes Tarr's cunning idol, aghast at its
nakedness, would manage to borrow or purloin some
shape of covering from elegantly draped visitor.
But for Hobson' s outfit he had the greatest
contempt.
This was Alan Hobson's outfit. — A Cambridge cut
disfigured his originally manly and melodramatic
form. His father was a wealthy merchant somewhere
in Egypt. He was very athletic, and his dark and
cavernous features had been constructed by Nature
as a lurking-place for villainies and passions. He was
untrue to his rascally, sinuous body. He slouched
and ambled along, neglecting his muscles : and his
dastardly face attempted to portray delicacies of
common sense, and gossamer-like backslidings into
the Inane that would have puzzled a bile-specialist.
He would occasionally exploit his blackguardly
appearance and blacksmith's muscles for a short time,
however. And his strong, piercing laugh threw
ABC waitresses into confusion.
The Art-touch, the Bloomsbury stain, was very
observable. Hobson's Harris tweeds were shabby.
A hat suggesting that his ancestors had been Plains-
men or some rough sunny folk, shaded unnecessarily
his countenance, already far from open.
The material for conversation afforded by a short sea
3
voyage,~an absence, a panama hat on his companion's
head, had been exhausted. — Tarr possessed no deft
hand or f economy of force. His muscles rose un-
necessarily on his arm to lift a wine-glass to his lips.
He had no social machinery, but the cumbrous one
of the intellect. He danced about with this, it is true.
But it was full of sinister piston-rods, organ-like
shapes, heavy drills. — When he tried to be amiable,
he usually only succeeded in being ominous.
It was an effort to talk to Hobson. For this effort
a great bulk of nervous force was awoken. It got
to work and wove its large anomalous patterns. It
took the subject that was foremost in his existence
and imposed it on their talk.
Tarr turned to Hobson, and seized him, conversa-
tionally, by the hair.
" Well, Walt Whitman ^ when are you going to
get your hair cut ? "
" Why do you call me Walt Whitman ? "
" Would you prefer Buffalo Bill ? Or is it Shake-
speare ? "
"It is not Shakespeare "
" ' Eoi je ne suis : prince je ne daigne.' — That's
Hobson's choice. — But why so much hair ? I don't
wear my hair long. If you had as many reasons for
wearing it long as I have, we should see it flowing
round your ankles ! "
" I might ask you under those circumstances why
you wear it short. But I expect you have good
reasons for that, too. I can't see why you should
resent my innocent device. However long I wore it
I should not damage you by my competition "
Tarr rattled the cement match-stand on the table,
and the gar f on sang " Toute suite, toute suite ! "
" Hobson, you were telling me about a studio to
let before you left. — I forget the details "
" Was it one behind the Panth6on ? "
" That's it.— Was there electric light ? "
" No, I don't think there was electric light. But
I can find out for you."
" How did you come to hear of it ? "
4
" Through a German I know — Salle, Salla, or
something."
" What was the street ? "
" The Eue Lhomond. I forget the number."
" I'll go and have a look at it after lunch. — What
on earth possesses you to know so many Germans ? "
Tarr asked, sighing.
" Don't you like Germans ? — You've just been too
intimate with one ; that's what it is."
" Perhaps I have."
" A female German."
" The sex weakens the ' German,' surely."
" Does it in Fraulein Lunken's case ? "
" Oh, you know her, do you ? — Of course, you
would know her, as she's a German."
Alan Hobson cackled morosely, like a very sad top-
dog trying to imitate a rooster.
Tarr's unwieldy playfulness, might in the chequered
northern shade, in conjunction with nut-brown ale,
gazed at by some Eowlandson — he on the ultimate
borders of the epoch — have pleased by its a propos.
But when the last Eowlandson dies, the life, too, that
he saw should vanish. Anything that survives the
artist's death is not life, but play-acting. This
homely, thick -waisted affectation ! — Hobson yawned
and yawned as though he wished to swallow Tarr
and have done with him. Tarr yawned more noisily,
rattled his chair, sat up, haggard and stiff, as though
he wished to frighten this crow away. " Carrion-
Crow " was Tarr's name for Hobson : " The olde
Crow of Cairo," rather longer.
Why was he talking to this man ? However, he
shortly began to lay bare the secrets of his soul.
Hobson opened :
" It seems to me, Tarr, that you know more
Germans than I do. But you're ashamed of it. Hence
your attack. I met a Fraulein Fierspitz the other
day, a German, who claimed to know you. I am
always meeting Germans who know you. She also
referred to you as the ' official fianc6 ' of Fraulein
Lunken. — Are you an ' official fianc6 ' ? And if so,
what is that, may I ask ? "
5
Tarr was taken aback, it was evident. Hobson
laughed stridently. The real man emerging, he came
over quickly on another wave.
" You not only get to know Germans, crowds of
them, on the sly; you make your bosom friend of
them, engage yourself to them in marriage and make
Heaven knows how many more solemn pacts, cove-
nants, and agreements.— It's bound all to come out
some day. What will you do then ? "
Tarr was recovering gracefully from his relapse
into discomfort. If ever taken off his guard, he
made a clever use immediately afterwards of his
naivete. He beamed on his slip. He would swallow
it tranquilly, assimilating it, with ostentation, to
himself. When some personal weakness slipped out
he would pick it up unabashed, look at it smilingly,
and put it back in his pocket.
" As you know," he soon replied, " ' engagement
is an euphemism. And, as a matter of fact, my girl
publicly announced the breaking off of our engage-
ment yesterday."
He looked a complete child, head thrown up as
though proclaiming something he had reason to be
particularly proud of.— Hobson laughed convulsively,
cracking his yellow fingers.
" Yes, it is funny, if you look at it in that way.— I
let her announce our engagement or the reverse just
as she likes. That has been our arrangement from
the start. I never know at any given time whether
I am engaged or not. I leave all that sort of thing
entirely in her hands. After a severe quarrel I am
pretty certain that I am temporarily unattached, the
link publicly severed somewhere or other."
" Possibly that is what is meant by ' official
fianc6 ' ? "
" Very likely."
He had been hustled— through his vanity, the
Cairo Cantabian thought— somewhere where the time
could be passed. He did not hesitate to handle
Tarr's curiosities.— It is a graceful compliment to
offer the nectar of some ulcer to your neighbour. The
6
modern man understands his udders and taps. —
With an obscene heroism Tarr displayed his. His
companion wrenched at it with malice. Tarr pulled
a wry face once or twice at the other's sans gene.
But he was proud of what he could stand. He had
a hazy image of a shrewd old countryman in contact
with the sharpness of the town. He would not shrink.
He would roughly outstrip his visitor. — " Ay, I have
this the matter with me — a funny complaint ? — and
that, and that, too. — What then ? — Do you want
me to race you to that hill ? "
He obtruded complacently all he had most to be
ashamed of, conscious of the power of an obsessing
weakness.
" Will you go so far in this clandestine life of yours
as to marry anybody ? " Hobson proceeded.
"No."
Hobson stared with bright meditative sweetness
down the boulevard.
" I think there must be a great difference between
your way of approaching Germans and mine," he said.
" Ay : it is different things that takes us respec-
tively amongst them."
" You like the national flavour, all the same."
. " I like the national flavour ! " — Tarr had a way
of beginning a reply with a parrot-like echo of the
words of the other party to the dialogue ; also of
repeating sotto voce one of his own sentences, a
mechanical rattle following on without stop. " Sex
is nationalized more than any other essential of
life. In this it is just the opposite to art. — There
is much pork and philosophy in German sex. — But
then if it is the sex you are after, it does not say you
want to identify your being with your appetite.
Quite the opposite. The condition of continued
enjoyment is to resist assimilation. — A man is the
opposite of his appetite."
" Surely, a man is his appetite."
" No, a man is always his last appetite, or his
appetite before last ; and that is no longer an appe-
7
tite. — But nobody is anything, or life would be
intolerable, the human race collapse. — You are me,
I am you. — The Present is the furthest projection
of our steady appetite. Imagination, like a general,
keeps behind. Imagination is the man."
" What is the Present ? " Hobson asked politely,
with much aspirating, sitting up a little and slightly
offering his ear.
But Tarr only repeated things arbitrarily. He
proceeded :
" Sex is a monstrosity. It is the arch abortion of
this filthy universe. — How ' old-fashioned ! ' — eh, my
fashionable friend? — We are all optimists to-day,
aren't we ? God's in his Heaven, all's well with the
world ! I am a pessimist, Hobson. But I'm a
new sort of pessimist. — I think I am the sort that
will please ! — I am the Panurgic-Pessimist, drunken
with the laughing-gas of the Abyss. I gaze on
squalor and idiocy, and the more I see it, the more
I like it. — Flaubert built up his Bouvard et Pecuchet
with maniacal and tireless hands. It took him ten
years. That was a long draught of stodgy laughter
from the gases that rise from the dung-heap ? He
had an appetite like an elephant for this form of
mirth. But he grumbled and sighed over his food. —
I take it in my arms and bury my face in it ! "
As Tarr's temperament spread its wings, whirling
him menacingly and mockingly above Hobson's
head, the Cantab philosopher did not think it neces-
sary to reply. — He was not winged himself. — He
watched Tarr looping the loop above him. He was
a drole bird ! He wondered, as he watched him, if
he was a sound bird, or homme-oiseau. People
believed in him. His Exhibition flights attracted
attention. What sort of prizes could he expect to
win by his professional talents ? Would this notable
ambitieux be satisfied ?
The childish sport proceeded, with serious in-
tervals.
11 1 bury my face in it ! " — (He buried his face in
it ! !)_ " I laugh hoarsely through its thickness,
8
choking and spitting ; coughing, sneezing, blowing. —
People will begin to think I am an alligator if they
see me always swimming in their daily ooze. As
far as sex is concerned, I am that. Sex, Hobson, is a
German study. A German study." He shook his
head in a dejected, drunken way, protruding his lips.
He seemed to find analogies for his repeating habits,
with the digestion. — " All the same, you must take
my word for much in that connexion. — The choice of
a wife is not practical in the way that the securing of
a good bicycle, hygiene, or advertisement is. You
must think more of the dishes of the table. Eem-
brandt paints decrepit old Jews, the most decayed
specimens of the lowest race on earth, that is. Shake-
speare deals in human tubs of grease — Falstaff ;
Christ in sinners. Now as to sex ; Socrates married
a shrew ; most of the wisest men marry fools, picture
post cards, cows, or strumpets."
" I don't think that is quite true." Hobson resur-
rected himself dutifully. " The more sensible people
I can think of off-hand have more sensible, and on
the whole prettier, wives than other people."
" Prettier wives ? — You are describing a meaning-
less average. — The most suspicious fact about a
distinguished man is the possession of a distinguished
-wife. But you might just as well say in answer
to my Art statement that Sir Edward Leighton did
not paint the decayed meat of humanity."
Hobson surged up a little in his chair and collapsed.
— He had to appeal to his body to sustain the
argument.
" Neither did Eaphael — I don't see why you should
drag Eembrandt in — Eembrandt "
" You're going to sniff at Eembrandt ! — You accuse
me of following the fashions in my liking for Cubism.
You are much more fashionable yourself. Would you
mind my 'dragging in' cheese, high game ? "
Hobson allowed cheeses with a rather drawn ex-
pression. But he did not see what that had to do
with it, either.
" It is not purely a question of appetite," he said.
9
" Sex, sir, is purely a question of appetite ! " Tarr
replied.
Hobson inclined himself mincingly, with a sweet
chuckle.
" If it is pure sex, that is," Tarr added.
" Oh, if it is pure sex — that, naturally " Hobson
convulsed himself and crowed thrice.
" Listen, Hobson ! — You mustn't make that noise.
It's very clever of you to be able to. But you will
not succeed in rattling me by making me feel I am
addressing a rooster "
Hobson let himself go in whoops and caws, as
though Tarr had been pressing him to perform.
When he had finished, Tarr said :
" Are you willing to consider sex seriously, or not? "
" Yes, I don't mind." — Hobson settled down, his
face flushed from his late display. — " But I shall
begin to believe before very long that your intentions
are honourable as regards the fair Fraulein. — What
exactly is your discourse intended to prove ? "
" Not the desirability of the marriage tie, any more
than a propaganda for representation and anecdote
in art. But if a man marries, or a great painter
represents (and the claims and seductions of life are
very urgent), he will not be governed in his choice
by the same laws that regulate the life of an efficient
citizen, a successful merchant, or the ideals of a
health expert."
" I should have said that the considerations that
precede a proposition of marriage had many analo-
gies with the health expert's outlook, the good
citizen's "
" Was Napoleon successful in life, or did he ruin
himself and end his days in miserable captivity ? —
Passion precludes the idea of success. Failure is its
condition. — Art and Sex when they are deep enough
make tragedies, and not advertisements for Health
experts, or happy endings for the Public, or social
panaceas."
" Alas, that is true."
"Well, then, well, then, Alan Hobson, vou scare-
10
crow of an advanced fool-farm, deplorable pedant of
a sophistic voice-culture "
"I? My voice—? But that's absurd !— If my
speech "
Hobson was up in arms about his voice : although
it was not his.
Tarr needed a grimacing, tumultuous mask for the
face he had to cover. — The clown was the only role
that was ample enough. He had compared his
clowning with Hobson's Pierrotesque and French
variety.
But Hobson, he considered, was a crowd. — You
could not say he was an individual. — He was a set.
He sat there, a cultivated audience. — He had the
aplomb and absence of self-consciousness of numbers,
of the herd — of those who know they are not alone. —
Tarr was shy and the reverse by turns. He was alone.
The individual is rustic.
For distinguishing feature Hobson possessed a
distinguished absence of personality.
Tarr gazed on this impersonality, of crowd origin,
with autocratic scorn.
Alan Hobson was a humble investor.
" But we're talking at cross purposes, Hobson.—
You think I am contending that affection for a dolt,
like my fiancee, is in some way a merit. I do not
mean that. Also, I do not mean that sex is my
tragedy, but art. — I will explain why I am associated
sexually with this pumpkin. First, I am an artist. —
With most people, not describable as artists, all the
finer part of their vitality goes into sex. They
become third-rate poets during their courtship. All
their instincts of drama come out freshly with their
wives. The artist is he in whom this emotionality
normally absorbed by sex is so strong that it claims a
newer and more exclusive field of deployment. — Its
first creation is the Artist himself, a new sort of person ;
the creative man. But for the first-rate poet, nothing
short of a Queen or a Chimera is adequate for the
powers of his praise. — And so on all through the
bunch of his gifts. One by one his powers and moyens
11
are turned away from the usual object of a man's
poetry, and turned away from the immediate world.
One solitary thing is left facing a woman. — That
is his sex, a lonely phallus. — Things are not quite so
simple in actual fact as this. Some artists are less
complete than others. More or less remains to the
man. — Then the character of the artist's creation
comes in. What tendency has my work as an artist,
a ready instance ? You may have noticed that it has
that of an invariable severity. Apart from its being
good or bad, its character is ascetic rather than
sensuous, and divorced from immediate life. There
is no slop of sex in that. But there is no severity left
over for the work of the cruder senses either. Very
often with an artist w r hose work is very sensuous or
human, his sex instinct, if it is active, will be more
discriminating than with a man more fastidious and
discriminating than he in his work. To sum up this
part of my disclosure. — No one could have a coarser,
more foolish, slovenly taste than I have in women.
It is not even sluttish and abject, of the J. W. M.
Turner type, with his washerwoman at Gravesend. —
It is bourgeois, banal, pretty-pretty, a cross between
the Musical Comedy stage and the ideal of the
Eighteenth -Century gallant. All the delicate psycho-
logy another man naturally seeks in a woman, the
curiosity of form, windows on other lives, love and
passion, I seek in my work and not elsewhere. — Form
would perhaps be thickened by child-bearing ; it
would perhaps be damaged by harlotry. — Why should
sex still be active ? That is a matter of heredity
that has nothing to do with the general energies of the
mind. I see I am boring you. — The matter is too
remote ! — But you have trespassed here, and you
must listen. — I cannot let you off before you have
heard, and shown that you understand. — If you do
not sit and listen, I will write it all to you. You
will be made to hear it ! — And after I have told
you this, I will tell you why I am talking to a fool
like you ! "
" You ask me to be polite "
12
" I don't mind how impolite you are so long as
you listen."
" Well, I am listening — with interest."
Tarr was tearing, as he saw it, at the blankets that
swaddled this spirit in its inner snobberies. — A bitter
feast was steaming hot, and a mouth must be found
to eat it. This beggar's had to serve. It was, above
all, an ear, all the nerves complete. He must get
his words into it. They must not be swallowed at
a gulp. They must taste, sting, and benefit by the
meaning of an appetite. — He had something to say.
It must be said while it was living. Once it was said,
it could look after itself. — Hobson had shocked some-
thing that was ready to burst out. He must help
it out. Hobson must pay as well for the intimacy.
He must pay Bertha Lunken afterwards.
He felt like insisting that he should come round
and apologize to her.
" A man only goes and confesses his faults to the
world when his self will not acknowledge or listen to
them. The function of a friend is to be a substitute
for this defective self, to be the World and the Eeal
without the disastrous consequences of reality. — Yet
punishment is one of his chief offices. — The friend
enlarges also substantially the boundaries of our
solitude."
This was written in Tarr's diary. He was now
chastising this self he wrote of for not listening, by
telling the first stranger met. — Had a friend been
there he could have interceded for his ego.
" You have followed so far ? " Tarr looked with
slow disdainful suspicion at Hobson' s face staring at
the ground. " You have understood the nature of
my secret ? — Half of myself I have to hide. I am
bitterly ashamed of a slovenly, common portion of
my life that has been isolated and repudiated by the
energies I am so proud of. ' I am ashamed of the
number of Germans I know,' as you put it. — I have
13
in that role to cower and slink away even from an
old fruit-tin like you. It is useless heroically to
protect that section of my life. It's no good sticking
up for it. It is not worth protecting. It is not even
up to your standards. I have, therefore, to deliver
it over to your eyes, and eyes of the likes of you,
in the end — if you will deign to use them ! — I even
have to beg you to use your eyes ; to hold you by
the sleeve and crave a glance for an object belonging
to me !
" In this compartment of my life I have not a vestige
of passion. — That is the root reason for its meanness
and absurdity. — The best friend of my Dr. Jekyll
would not know my Mr. Hyde, and vice versa. This
rudimentary self is more starved and stupid than
any other man's. Or to put it less or more humbly,
I am of that company who are reduced to looking
to Socrates for a consoling lead.
" Think of all the collages, marriages, and liaisons
that you know, in which some frowsy or foolish or
doll-like or log-like bitch accompanies the form of
an otherwise sensible man : a dumbfounding, disgust-
ing, and septic ghost !
" How foul and wrong this haunting of women is ! —
They are everywhere ! — Confusing, blurring, libelling,
with their half-baked, gushing, tawdry presences !
It is like a slop of children and the bawling machinery
of the inside of life, always and all over our palaces.
Their silly flood of cheap illusion comes in between
friendships, stagnates complacently around a softened
mind.
" I might almost take some credit to myself for
at least having the grace to keep this bear-garden in
the background."
Hobson had brightened up while this was proceed-
ing. — He now said:
" You might almost. — Why don't you ? I admire
what you tell me. But you appear to take your
German foibles too much to heart."
" Just at present I am engaged in a gala of the
heart. You may have noticed that. — I am not a
14
strict landlord with the various personalities gathered
beneath my roof. — In the present case I am really
blessed. But you should see the sluts that get in
sometimes ! They all become steadily my fiancee
too. — Fiancee ! Observe how one apes the forms of
conventional life. It does not mean anything, so
one lets it stop. Its the same with the cafe fools
I have for friends — there's a Greek fool, a German
fool, a Eussian fool, — an English fool ! — There are
no ' friends ' in this life any more than there are
' fiancees.' So it doesn't matter. You drift on side
by side with this live stock — friends, fiancees, 'col-
leagues,' and what not."
Hobson sat staring with a bemused seriousness at
the ground.
" Why should I not speak plainly and cruelly of
my poor, ridiculous fiancee to you or any one ? — After
all, it is chiefly myself I am castigating. — But you,
too, must be of the party ! The right to see implies
the right to be seen. As an offset for your prying,
scurvy way of peeping into my affairs you must
offer your own guts, such as they are ! "
" How have I pried into your affairs ? " Hobson
asked with a circumspect surprise.
" Any one who stands outside, who hides himself
in a deliquescent aloofness, is a sneak and a spy "
'" That seems to me to be a case of smut calling the
kettle black. I should not have said that you were
conspicuous ' '
" No. — You know you have joined yourself to
those who hush their voices to hear what other
people are saying ! — Every one who does not fight
openly and bear his share of the common burden of
ignominy in life, is a sneak, unless it is for a solid
motive. — The quiet you claim is not to work in. —
What have you exchanged your temper, your freedom,
and your fine voice against ? You have exchanged
them for an old hat that does not belong to you, and
a shabbiness you have not merited by suffering
neediness. — Your pseudo-neediness is a sentimental
indulgence. — Every man should be forced to dress
15
up to his income, and make a smart, fresh appearance.
— Patching the seat of your trousers, instead ! "
" Wait a minute," Hobson said, with a laugh. " You
accuse me of sentimentality in my choice of costume.
I wonder if you are as free from sentimentality."
" I don't care a tinker's blue curse about that. —
I am talking about you. — Let me proceed. — With
your training, you are decked in the plumes of
very fine birds indeed. But your plumes are not
meant to fly with, but merely to slouch and skip
along the surface of the earth. — You wear the livery
of a ridiculous set, you are a cunning and sleek
domestic. No thought can come out of your head
before it has slipped on its uniform. All your
instincts are drugged with a malicious languor, an
arm, a respectability, invented by a set of old women
and mean, cadaverous little boys."
Hobson opened his mouth, had a movement of the
body to speak. But he relapsed.
"You reply, 'What is all this fuss about? I
have done the best for myself. — I was not suited for
any heroic station, like yours. I live sensibly and
quietly, cultivating my vegetable ideas, and also my
roses and Victorian lilies. — I do no harm to any-
body."
" That is not quite the case. That is a little inexact.
Your proceedings possess a herdesque astuteness ; in
the scale against the individual weighing less than the
Yellow Press, yet being a closer and meaner attack.
Also you are essentially spies, in a scurvy, safe and well-
paid service, as I told you before. You are disguised to
look like the thing it is your function to betray — What is
your position ? — You have bought for eight hundred
pounds at an aristocratic educational establishment a
complete mental outfit, a programme of manners.
For four years you trained with other recruits. You
are now a perfectly disciplined social unit, with a pro-
found esprit de corps. The Cambridge set that you
represent is as observed in an average specimen, a
cross between a Quaker, a Pederast, and a Chelsea
artist.— Your Oxford brothers, dating from the Wilde
16
decade, are a stronger body. The Chelsea artists are
much less flimsy. The Quakers are powerful rascals.
You represent, my Hobson, the dregs of Anglo-
Saxon civilization ! — There is nothing softer on
earth. — Your flabby potion is a mixture of the
lees of Liberalism, the poor froth blown off the
decadent nineties, the wardrobe — leavings of a vulgar
Bohemianism with its head- quarters in Chelsea !
11 You are concentrated, systematic slop. — There
is nothing in the universe to be said for you. — Any
efficient State would confiscate your property, burn
your wardrobe, that old hat, and the rest, as infecte
and insanitary, and prohibit you from propagating."
Tarr's white collar shone dazzlingly in the sun. —
His bowler hat bobbed and cut clean lines as he
spoke.
" A breed of mild pervasive cabbages has set up
a wide and creeping rot in the West of Europe. —
They make it indirectly a peril and tribulation for
live things to remain in the neighbourhood. You are
systematizing and vulgarizing the individual. — You
are not an individual. You have, I repeat,, no right
to that hair and that hat. You are trying to have
the apple and eat it too. — You should be in uniform,
and at work, not uniformly out of uniform, and
libelling the Artist by your idleness. Are you idle ? "
Tarr had drawn up short, turned squarely on
Hobson; in an abrupt and disconnected voice he
asked his question.
Hobson stirred resentfully in his chair. He yawned
a little. He replied :
11 Am I idle, did you say ? Yes, I suppose I am
not particularly industrious. But how does that
affect you ? You know you don't mean all that
nonsense. Vous vous moquez de moi ! Where aro
you coming to ! "
v I have explained already where I come in. It
is stupid to be idle. You go to seed. — The only
justification for your slovenly appearance, it is true,
is that it is ideally emblematic."
" My dear Tarr, you're a strange fellow. I can't
17 B
see why these things should occupy you. — You have
just told me a lot of things that may be true or may
not. But at the end of them all — ? Et alors ? —
alors ? — quoi ? one asks. You contradict yourself.
You know you don't think what you talk. You
deafen me with your upside-downness."
He gesticulated, got the French guttural r with
satisfaction, and said the quoi rather briskly.
" In any case my hat is my business !" he con-
cluded quickly, after a moment, getting up with a
curling, luscious laugh.
The gargon hurried up and they paid.
" No, I am responsible for you. — I am one of the
only people who see. That is a responsibility." —
Tarr walked down the boulevard with him, speaking
in his ear almost, and treading on his toes.
" You know Baudelaire's fable of the obsequious
vagabond, cringing for alms I For all reply, the poet
seizes a heavy stick and belabours the beggar with
it. The beggar then, when he is almost beaten to
a pulp, suddenly straightens out beneath the blows ;
expands, stretches ; his eyes dart fire ! He rises up
and falls on the poet tooth and nail. In a few
seconds he has laid him out flat, and is just going
to finish him off, when an agent arrives. — The
poet is enchanted. He has accomplished some-
thing !
" Would it be possible to achieve a work of that
description with you ? No. You are meaner-spirited
than the most abject tramp. I would seize you by
the throat at once if I thought you would black my
eye. But I feel it my duty at least to do this for
your hat. Your hat, at least, will have had its little
drama to-day."
Tarr knocked his hat off into the road. — Without
troubling to wait for the results of this action, he
hurried away down the Boulevard du Paradis.
18
CHAPTEE II
A great many of Frederick Tarr's resolutions came
from his conversation. It was a tribunal to which
he brought his hesitations. An active and hustling
spirit presided over this section of his life.
Civilized men have for conversation something of
the superstitious feeling that ignorant men have for
the written or the printed word.
Hobson had attracted a great deal of steam to
himself. Tarr was unsatisfied. — He rushed away
from the Caf6 Berne still strong and with much more
to say. He rushed towards Bertha to say it.
A third of the way he came on a friend who should
have been met before Hobson. Then Bertha and he
could have been spared.
Butcher was a bloody wastrel enamoured of gold
and liberty. — He was a romantic, educating his
schoolboyish sense of adventure up to the pitch of
drama. He had been induced by Tarr to develop
an interest in commerce. He had started a motor
business in Paris, and through circularizing the
Americans resident there and using his English
connexions, he was succeeding on the lines sug-
gested.
' Tarr had argued that an interest of this sort would
prevent him from becoming arty and silly. — Tarr
would have driven his entire circle of acquaintances
into commerce if he could. He had at first cherished
the ambition of getting Hobson into a bank in South
Africa.
As he rushed along then a gaunt car met him,
rushing in the opposite direction. Butcher's large
red nose stood under a check cap phenomenally
peaked. A sweater and Yankee jacket exaggerated
his breadth. He was sunk in horizontal massiveness
in the car — almost in the road. A quizzing, heavy
smile broke his face open in an indifferent business-
like way. It was a sour smile, as though half his
face were frozen with cocaine. — He pulled up with
19
the air of an Iron-Age mechanic, born among beds
of embryonic machinery.
" Ah, I thought I might see you." — He rolled over
the edge and stood grinning and stretching in front
of his friend.
" Where are you off to ? " Tarr asked.
61 1 heard there were some gypsies encamped over
by Charenton." — He smiled and waited, his entire
face breaking up expectantly into cunning pits and
traps. — Mention of " gypsies " usually drew Tarr.
They were a survival of Butcher's pre-motor days.
" Neglecting business % " was all Tarr said how-
ever. " Have you time for a drink ? "
" Yes ! " Butcher turned with an airy jerk to
his car. " Shall we go to the Pantheon ? "
" How about the Univers ? Would that take
long % "
" The Univers % Four or five minutes. — Jump
in."
When they had got to the Univers and ordered
their drink, Tarr said :
" I've just been talking to Alan Hobson. I've
been telling him off."
" That's right. — How had he deserved it ? "
" Oh, he happened to drop on me when I was
thinking about my girl. He began congratulating
me on my engagement. So I gave him my views
on marriage, and then wound up with a little impro-
visation about himself."
Butcher maintained a decorous silence, drinking
his beer.
" You're not engaged to be married, are you % "
he asked.
" Well, that's a difficult question." — Tarr laughed
with circumspection and softness. " I don't know
whether I am or whether I'm not."
" Would it be the German girl, if you were ? "
" Yes, she'd be the one."
There was a careful absence of comment in Butcher's
face.
" Ought I to marry the Lunken ? "
20
" No," Butcher said with measure.
" In that case I ought to tell her at once."
" That is so."
Tarr had a dark morning coat, whose tails flowed
behind him as he walked strongly and quickly along,
and curled on either side of his hips as he sat. It
was buttoned half-way down the body. — He was
taller than Butcher, wore glasses, had a dark skin,
and a steady, unamiable, impatient expression. He
was clean-shaven, with a shallow, square jaw and
straight, thick mouth. — His hands were square and
usually hot.
He impressed you as having inherited himself last
week, and as under a great press of business to grasp
the details and resources of the concern. Not very
much satisfaction at his inheritance, and no swank.
Great capacity was printed all over him. — He did
not appear to have been modified as yet by any
sedentary, sentimental, or other discipline or habit.
He was at his first push in an ardent and exotic
world, with a good fund of passion from a frigid
climate of his own. — His mistakes he talked over
without embarrassment. He felt them deeply. He
was experimental and modest.
A rude and hard infancy, according to Balzac, is
best for development of character. A child learns
duplicity, and hardens in defence. — An enervating
childhood of molly-coddling, on the other hand, such
as Tarr's, has its advantages. — He was an only child
of a selfish, vigorous mother. The long foundation
of delicate trustfulness and childishness makes for
a store of illusion to prolong youth and health beyond
the usual term. Tarr, with the Balzac upbringing,
would have had a little too much character, like a
rather too muscular man. As it was, he was a shade
too nervous. But his confidence in the backing of
character was unparalleled. You would have thought
he had an iron-field behind him.
When he solicited advice, it was transparently a
matter of form. But he appeared to need his awn
advice to come from himself in public. — Did he feel
21
himself of more importance in public ? — His relation
to the world was definite and complementary. He
preferred his own word to come out of the air ; when,
that is, issuing from his mouth, it entered either ear
as an independent vibration. He was the kind of
man who, if he ever should wish to influence the
world, would do it so that he might touch himself
more plastically through others. He would paint
his picture for himself. He was capable of respect
for his self-projection. It had the authority of a
stranger for him.
Butcher knew that his advice was not really
solicited. — This he found rather annoying, as he
wanted to meddle. But his opportunity would come.
— Tarr's affairs with Bertha Lunken were very
exasperating. Of all the drab, dull, and dispropor-
tionately long liaisons, that one was unique ! He had
accepted it as an incomprehensible and silly joke.
" She's a very good sort. You know, she is
phenomenally kind. It's not quite so absurd as you
think, my question as to whether I should marry
her. Her love is quite beyond question."
Butcher listened with a slight rolling of the eyes,
which was a soft equivalent for grinding his teeth.
Tarr proceeded :
" She has a nice healthy penchant for self-immola-
tion ; not, unfortunately, directed by any consider-
able tact or discretion. She is apt to lie down on
the altar at the wrong moment — even to mistake all
sorts of unrelated things for altars. She once lay
down on the pavement of the Boulevard Sebastopol,
and continued to lie there heroically till, with the
help of an agent, I bundled her into a cab. She
is genial and fond of a gross pleasantry, very near
to c the people ' — le peuple, as she says, purringly and
pityingly. All individuals who have class marked
on them strongly resemble each other. A typical
duchess is much more like a typical nurserymaid
than she is like anybody not standardized to the same
extent. So is Bertha, a bourgeoise, or rather bourgeois-
Bohemian, reminiscent of the popular maiden."
22
Tarr relighted his cigarette.
" She is full of good sense. — She is a high standard
Aryan female, in good condition, superbly made ;
of the succulent, obedient, clear, peasant type. It
is natural that in my healthy youth, living in these
Bohemian wastes, I should catch fire. But that is
not the whole of the picture. She is unfortunately
not a peasant. She has German culture, and a
florid philosophy of love. — She is an art-student. —
She is absurd."
Tarr struck a match for his cigarette.
" You would ask then how it is that I am still
there ? The peasant-girl — if such it were — would
not hold you for ever ; even less so the spoiled
peasant. — But that's where the mischief lies. — That
bourgeois, spoiled, ridiculous element was the trap.
I was innocently depraved enough to find it irre-
sistible. It had the charm of a vulgar wall-paper,
a gimcrack ornament. A cosy banality set in the
midst of a rough life. Youthful exoticism has done
it, the something different from oneself."
Butcher did not roll his eyes any more. They
looked rather moist. He was thinking of love and
absurdities that had checkered his own past, and
was regretting a downy doll. He was won over
besides by Tarr's plaidoirie, as he always was. His
friend could have convinced him of anything on
earth within ten minutes.
Tarr, noticing the effect of his words, laughed.
Butcher was like a dog, with his rheumy eyes.
" My romance, you see, is exactly inverse to yours,"
Tarr proceeded. " But pure unadulterated romanti-
cism with me is in about the same rudimentary state
as sex. So they had perhaps better keep together ?
I only allow myself to philander with little things.
I have succeeded in shunting our noxious illusionism
away from the great spaces and ambitions. I have
billeted it with a bourgeoise in a villa. These things
are all arranged above our heads. They are no doubt
self-protective. The whole of a man's ninety-nine
per cent, of obscurer mechanism is daily engaged in
23
organizing his life in accordance with his deepest
necessity. Each person boasts some notable inven-
tion of personal applicationjonly.
" So there I am fixed with my bourgeoise in my
skin, dans ma peau. What is the next step ? — The
body is the main thing. — But I think I have made
a discovery. In sex I am romantic and arriSrS.
It would be healthier for all sex to be so. But that
is another matter. Well, I cannot see myself attracted
by an exceptional woman — ' spiritual ' woman —
' noble soul,' or even a particularly refined and witty
animal. — I do not understand attraction for such
beings. — Their existence appears to me quite natural
and proper, but, not being as fine as men ; not being
as fine as pictures or poems ; not being as fine as
housewives or classical Mothers of Men ; they appear
to me to occupy an unfortunate position on this
earth. No man properly demarcated as I am will
have much to do with them. They are very beautiful
to look at. But they are unfortunately alive, and
usually cats. If you married one of them, out of
pity, you would have to support the eternal grin
of a Gioconda fixed complacently on you at all hours
of the day, the pretensions of a piece of canvas that
had sold for thirty thousand pounds. You could
not put your foot through the canvas without being
hanged. You would not be able to sell it yourself
for that figure, and so get some little compensation.
Tout an plus, if the sentimental grin would not
otherwise come off, you could break its jaw, perhaps."
Butcher flung his head up, and laughed affectedly.
" Ha ha ! " — he went again.
" Very good ! — Very good ! — I know who you're
thinking of," he said.
" Do you ? Oh, the ' Gioconda smile,' you mean ?
— Yes. — In that instance, the man had only his
silly sentimental self to blame. He has paid the
biggest price given in our time for a living master-
piece. Sentimentalizing about masterpieces and
sentimental prices will soon have seen their day, I
expect. New masterpieces in painting will then
24
appear again, perhaps, where the live ones leagued
with the old dead ones disappear. — Beally, the more
one considers it, the more creditable and excellent
my self-organization appears. I have a great deal
to congratulate myself upon."
Butcher blinked and pulled himself together with
a grave dissatisfied expression.
" But will you carry it into effect to the extent? —
Will you ? — Would marriage be the ideal termina-
tion ? " — Butcher had a way of tearing up and
beginning all over again on a new breath.
11 That is what Hobson asked. — No, I don't think
marriage has anything to do with it. That is another
question altogether."
" I thought your remarks about the housewife
suggested "
11 No. — My relation to the idea of the housewife
is platonic. I am attracted to the housewife as I
might be attracted to the milliner. But just as I
should not necessarily employ the latter to make
hats — I should have some other use for her — so my
connexion with the other need not imply a manage.
But my present difficulty centres round that question :
" What am I to do with Fraulein Lunken ? "
Butcher drew himself up, and hiccuped solemnly
and slowly.
He did not reply.
" Once again, is marriage out of the question ? "
Tarr asked.
" You know yourself best. I don't think you
ought to marry."
"Why, am I ? "
11 No. You wouldn't stop with her. So why
marry ? "
He hiccuped again, and blinked.
Tarr gazed at his oracle with curiosity. — With eyes
glassily bloodshot, it discharged its wisdom on gusts
of air. Butcher was always surly about women, or
rather men's tenderness for them. He was a vindic-
tive enemy of the sex. He stood, a patient constable,
forbidding Tarr respectfully a certain road. He
25
spoke with authority and shortness, and hiccuped
to convey the absolute and assured quality of his
refusal.
" Well, in that case," Tarr said, " I must make
a move. I have treated Bertha very badly."
Butcher smothered a hiccup. — He ordered another
drink.
" Yes, I owe my girl anything I can give her. It
is hardly my fault. With the training you get in
England, how can you be expected to realize any-
thing ? The University of Humour that prevails
everywhere in England as the national institution
for developing youth, provides you with nothing
but a first-rate means of evading reality. The whole
of English training — the great fundamental spirit of
the country — is a system of deadening feeling, a
prescription for Stoicism. Many of the results are
excellent. It saves us from gush in many cases ;
it is an excellent armour in times of crisis or mis-
fortune. The English soldier gets his special cachet
from it. But for the sake of this wonderful panacea —
English humour — we sacrifice much. It would be
better to face our Imagination and our nerves without
this soporific. Once this armature breaks down, the
man underneath is found in many cases to have
become softened by it. He is subject to shock, over-
sensitiveness, and many ailments not met with in
the more frank and direct races. Their superficial
sensitiveness allows of a harder core. — To set against
this, of course, you have the immense reserves of
delicacy, touchiness, sympathy, that this envelope
of cynicism has accumulated. It has served English
art marvellously. But it is probably more useful for
art than for practical affairs. And the artist could
always look after himself. Anyhow, the time seems
to have arrived in my life, as I consider it has arrived
in the life of the country, to discard this husk and
armour. Life must be met on other terms than
those of fun and sport."
Butcher guffawed provocatively. Tarr joined him.
They both quaffed their beer.
26
" You're a terrible fellow," said Butcher. " If
you had your way, you'd leave us stark naked. We
should all be standing on our little island in the
savage state of the Ancient Britons — figuratively."
He hiccuped.
" Yes, figuratively. But in reality the country
would be armed better than it ever had been before.
And by the sacrifice of these famous ' national cha-
racteristics ' we cling to sentimentally, and which are
merely the accident of a time, we should lay a soil
and foundation of unspecific force, on which new
and realler ' national flavours ' would very soon
sprout."
11 1 quite agree," Butcher jerked out energetically.
He ordered another lager.
" I agree with what you say. If we don't give
up dreaming, we shall get spanked. I have given
up my gypsies. That was very public -spirited of
me ? " He looked coaxingly.
61 If every one would give up their gypsies, their
jokes, and their gentlemen — ' Gentlemen ' are
worse than gypsies. It would do perhaps if they
reduced them considerably, as you have your Gitanos.
— I'm going to swear off humour for a year. I am
going to gaze on even you inhumanly. All my mock
mutrimonial difficulties come from humour. I am
going to gaze on Bertha inhumanly, and not humor-
ously. Humour paralyses the sense for reality and
wraps people in a phlegmatic and hysterical dream-
world, full of the delicious swirls of the switchback,
the drunkenness of the merry-go-round — screaming
leaps from idea to idea. My little weapon for bring-
ing my man to earth — shot-gun or what not — gave
me good sport, too, and was of the best workmanship.
I carried it slung jauntily for some time at my side —
you may have noticed it. But I am in the tedious
position of the man who hits the bull's-eye every
time. Had I not been disproportionately occupied
with her absurdities, I should not have allowed this
charming girl to engage herself to me.
11 My first practical step now will be to take this
27
question of ' engaging ' myself or not into my own
hands. I shall disengage myself on the spot."
" So long as yon don't engage yourself again next
minute, and so on. If I felt that the time was not
quite ripe, I'd leave it in Fraulein Lunken's hands
a little longer. I expect she does it better than you
would."
Butcher filled his pipe, then he began laughing.
He laughed theatrically until Tarr stopped him.
" What are you laughing at ? "
" You are a nut ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! "
84 How am I a nut ? You must be thinking about
your old machine out there."
Butcher composed himself — theatrically.
" I was laughing at you. You repent of your
thoughtlessness, and all that. Your next step is to
put it right. I was laughing at the way you go about it.
You now proceed kindly but firmly to break off your
engagement and discard the girl. That is very neat."
" Do you think so ? Well, perhaps it is a trifle
over-tidy. I hadn't looked at it in that way."
" You can't be too tidy," Butcher said dogmati-
cally. He talked to Tarr, when a little worked up,
as Tarr talked to him. He didn't notice that he did.
It was partly cdlinerie and flattery.
Tarr pulled out a very heavy and determined-
looking watch. He would have suffered had he been
compelled to use a small watch. For the time to be
microscopic and noiseless would be unbearable. The
time must be human. That he insisted on. And it
must not be pretty or neat.
"It is late. I must go. Must you get back to
Passy or can you stop ? "
" Do you know, I'm afraid I must get back. I
have to lunch with a fellow at one, who is putting me
on to a good thing. But can I take you anywhere ?
Or are you lunching here ? "
" No. — Take me as far as the Samaritaine, will
you ? "
Butcher took him along two sides of the Louvre,
to the river.
28
11 Good-bye, then. Don't forget Saturday, six
o'clock."
Butcher nodded in bright, clever silence. He
shuffled into his car again, working his shoulders like
a verminous tramp. He rushed away, piercing blasts
from his horn rapidly softening as he became smaller.
Tarr was glad he had brought the car and Butcher
together. They were opposites with some grave
essential in common.
His usual lunch time an hour away, his so far
unrevised programme was to go to the Eue Lhomond
and search for Hobson's studio. For the length of
a street it was equally the road to the studio and to
Bertha's rooms. He knew to which he was going.
But a sensation of peculiar freedom and leisure
possessed him. There was no hurry. Was there
any hurry to go where he was going ? With a smile
in his mind, his face irresponsible and solemn, he
turned sharply into a narrow street, rendered danger-
ous by motor-buses, and asked at a loge if Monsieur
Lowndes were in.
" Monsieur Lounes ? Je pense que oui. Je ne
l'ai pas vu sortir."
He ascended to the fourth floor and rang a bell.
Lowndes was in. He heard him coming on tiptoe
to ,the door, and felt him gazing at him through an
invisible crack. He placed himself in a favourable
position.
CHAPTEE III
Tarr's idea of leisure recognized no departure from
the tragic theme of existence. Pleasure could take
no form that did not include Death and corruption —
at present Bertha and humour. Only he wished
to play a little longer. It was the last chance he
might have. Work was in front of him with Bertha.
He was giving up play. But the giving up of
play, even, had to take the form of play. He had
seen in terms of sport so long that he had no other
29
machinery to work with. Sport might perhaps, for
the fun of the thing, be induced to cast out sport.
As Lowndes crept towards the door, Tarr said to
himself, with ironic self-restraint, " Bloody fool,
bloody fool ! "
Lowndes was a brother artist, who was not very
active, but had just enough money to be a Cubist. He
was extremely proud of being interrupted in his work.
His " work " was a serious matter. He found " great
difficulty " in working. He always implied that you
did not. He had a form of persecution mania as
regards his " mornings." From his discourse you
gathered that he was, first of all, very much sought
after. People, seemingly, were always attempting to
get into his room. You imagined an immense queue
of unwelcome visitors (how or why he had gathered
or originally, it was to be supposed, encouraged, such,
you did not inquire). You never saw this queue.
The only person you definitely knew had been guilty
of interrupting his " work " was Thornton. This
man, because of his admiration for Lowndes' intelli-
gence and moth-like attraction for his Cubism, and
respect for his small income, had to suffer much
humiliation. He was to be found (even in the morn-
ing, strange to say) in Lowndes' studio, rapidly suck-
ing a pipe, blinking, flushing, stammering with
second-rate Public School mannerisms, retailing
scandal and sensational news, which he had acquired
from a woman who had sat next him at the invariable
dinner-party of the night before.
When you entered, he looked timidly and quickly
at the inexorable Lowndes, and began gathering up
his hat and books. Lowndes' manner became wither-
ing. You felt that before your arrival, his master
had been less severe ; that life might have been
almost bearable for Thornton. When he at last had
taken himself off, Lowndes would hasten to exculpate
himself. " Thornton was a fool, but he could not
always keep Thornton out," etc. Lowndes, with his
Thornton, displayed the characteristics of the self-
made man. He had risen ambitiously in the sphere
30
of the Intelligence. Thornton sat like an inhabitant
of the nether world of gossip, pettiness, and squalor
from which his friend had lately issued. He enter-
tained an immense respect for that friend. This
one of his own kind in a position of respect and
security was what he could best understand, and
would have most desired to be.
" Oh ! Come in, Tarr," Lowndes said, looking at
the floor of the passage, " I didn't know who it
was." The atmosphere became thick with ghost-
like intruders. The wretched Thornton seemed to
hover timidly in the background.
" Am I interrupting you ? " Tarr asked politely.
11 No-o-o ! " a long, reassuring, musical negative.
His face was very dark and slick, bald on top,
pettily bearded, rather unnecessarily handsome. Tarr
always felt a tinge of indecency in his good looks.
His Celtic head was allied to a stocky commercial
figure. Behind his spectacles his black eyes had a
way of scouring and scurrying over the floor. They
were often dreamy and burning. He waddled slightly,
or rather confided himself first to one muscular little
calf, then to the other.
Tarr had come to talk to him about Bertha.
" I'm afraid I must have interrupted your work ? "
Tarr said with mock ceremony.
"'No, it's all right. I was just going to have a
rest. I'm rather off colour."
Tarr misunderstood him.
" Off colour ? What is the matter with colour
now ? "
" No, I mean I'm seedy."
" Oh, ah. Yes."
His eyes still fixed on the ground, Lowndes pottered
about, like a dog.
As with most educated people who " do " any-
thing, and foresee analysis and fame, he was bio-
graphically minded. A poor man, he did his Boswell-
ing himself. His self-characterization, proceeding
whenever he was not alone, was as follows : " A fussy
and exacting man, slightly avuncular, strangely,
31
despite the fineness and amplitude of his character,
minute, precious, and tidy." (In this way he made
a virtue of his fuss.) To show how the general
illusion worked in a particular case : " He had been
disturbed in his ' work ' by Tarr, or had just emerged
from that state of wonderful concentration he called
' work.' He could not at once bend himself to more
general things. His nerves drove him from object
to object. But he would soon be quiet."
Tarr looked on with an ugly patience.
" Lowndes, I have come to ask you for a little
piece of advice."
Lowndes was flattered and relished the mystery.
" Ye-es," he said, smiling, in a slow, ■ sober,'
professional sing-song.
" Or rather, for an opinion. What is your opinion
of German women ? "
Lowndes had spent two years in Berlin and Munich.
Many of his friends were Austrian.
" German women ? But I must know first why you
ask me that question. You see, it's a wide subject."
" A wide subject — wide. Yes, very good ! Ha
ha ! — Well, it is like this. I think that they are
superior to Englishwomen. That is a very dangerous
opinion to hold, as there are so many German women
knocking about just now. — I want to rid myself of
it. — Can you help me ? "
Lowndes mused on the ground. Then he looked
up brightly.
" No, I can't. Because I share it ! "
" Lowndes, I'm surprised at you. I never thought
you were that sort of man ! "
" How do you mean ? "
" Perhaps you can help me nevertheless. Our
ideas on females may not be the same."
Tarr always embarrassed him. Lowndes huddled
himself tensely together, worked at his pipe, and met
Tarr's jokes painfully. He hesitated to sally forth
and drive the joke away.
" What are your ideas on females ? " he asked in
a moment.
32
11 Oh, I think they ought to be convex if you are
concave — stupid if you are intelligent, cold if you
are cold, frigid if you are volcanic. Always white
all over, clothes, underclothes, skin and all. — My
ideas do not extend much beyond that."
Lowndes organized Tarr's statement, with a view
to an adequate and light reply. He gnawed at his
pipe.
" Well, German women are usually convex. There
are also concave ones. There are cold ones and hot
ones." He looked up. " It all seems to depend
what you are like ! "
" I am cold ; inclined to be fat ; forte tite ; and
swarthy, as you see."
" In that case, if you took plenty of exercise,"
Lowndes undulated himself as though for the passage
of the large bubbles of chuckle, " I should think that
German women would suit you very well ! "
Tarr rose.
" I wish I hadn't come to see you, Lowndes. Your
answer is disappointing."
Lowndes got up, disturbed at Tarr's sign of
departure.
" I'm sorry. But I'm not an authority." He
leant against the fireplace to arrest Tarr's withdrawal
for a minute or two. " Are you doing much work ? "
" 1 1 No."
" Are you ever in in the afternoons ? I should like
to come round some day "
" I'm just moving into a new studio."
Lowndes looked suddenly at his watch, with
calculated, ape-like impulsiveness.
" Where are you having lunch ? I thought of
going down to Lejeune's to see if I could come across
a beggar of the name of Kreisler. He could tell you
much more about German women than I can. He's
a German. Come along, won't you ? Are you doing
anything ? "
" No, I know quite enough Germans. Besides, I
must go somewhere — I can't have lunch just yet.
Good-bye. Thank you for vour opinion."
33 " C
" Don't mention it," Lowndes said softly, his head
turned obliquely to his shoulder, as though he had
a stiff neek, and balancing on his calves.
He was rather wounded, or brusque, by the brevity
of Tarr's visit. His " morning " had not received
enough respect. It had been treated, in fact, cava-
lierly. His " work " had not been directly mentioned.
When Tarr got outside, he stood on the narrow
pavement, looking into a shop window. It was a
florist's and contained a great variety of flowers. He
was surprised to find that he did not know a single
flower by name. He hung on in front of this shop
before pushing off, as a swimmer does to a rock,
waving his legs. Then he got back into the street
from which his visit to Lowndes had deflected him.
He let himself drift down it. He still had some way
to go before he need decide between the Eue Martine
(where Bertha lived) and the Eue Lhomond.
He had not found resolution in his talks. That
already existed, the fruit of various other conversa-
tions on his matrimonial position — held with the
victim, Fraulein Lunken, herself.
Not to go near Bertha was the negative programme
for that particular day. To keep away was seldom
easy. But ever since his conversation at the Berne
he had been conscious of the absurd easiness of doing
so, if he wished. He had not the least inclination
to go to the Eue Martine ! — This sensation was so
grateful that its object shared in its effect. He deter-
mined to go and see her. He wanted to enjoy his
present feeling of indifference. Where best to enjoy
it was no doubt where she was.
As to the studio, he hesitated. A new situation
was created by this new feeling of indifference. Its
duration could not be gauged. — He wished to stay
in Paris just then to finish some paintings begun
some months before. He substituted for the Impres-
sionist's necessity to remain in front of the object
being represented, a sensation of the desirability of
finishing a canvas in the place where it was begun.
He had an Impressionist's horror of change.
34
So Tarr had evolved a plan. At first sight it was
wicked. It was no blacker than most of his in-
genuities. Bertha, as he had suggested to Butcher,
he had in some lymphatic way, dans la peau. It
appeared a matter of physical discomfort to leave
her altogether. It must be done gradually. So he
had thought that, instead of going away to England-
where the separation might cause him restlessness,
he had perhaps better settle down in her neighbour,
hood. Through a series of specially tended ennuis,
he would soon find himself in a position to depart.
So the extreme nearness of the studio to Bertha's
flat was only another inducement for him to take it.
" If it were next door, so much the better ! " he
thought.
Now for this famous feeling of indifference. Was
there anything in it ? — The studio for the moment
should be put aside. He would go to see Bertha.
Let. this visit solve this question.
CHAPTEE IV
The new summer heat drew heavy pleasant ghosts
out of the ground, like plants disappeared in winter ;
spectres of energy, bulking the hot air with vigorous
dreams. Or they had entered into the trees, in imita-
tion of Pagan gods, and nodded their delicate distant
intoxication to him. Visions were released in the
sap, with scented explosion, the spring one bustling
and tremendous reminiscence.
Tarr felt the street was a pleasant current, setting
from some immense and tropic gulf, neighboured by
Floridas of remote invasions. He ambled down it
puissantly, shoulders shaped like these waves ; a
heavy-sided drunken fish. The houses, with winks
of the shocked clockwork, were grazed, holding along
their surface thick soft warmth. It poured weakly
into his veins. A big dog wandering on its easily
transposable business, inviting some delightful acci-
35
dent to deflect it from maudlin and massive prome-
nade. In his mind, too, as in the dog's, his business
was doubtful— a small black spot ahead in his bram,
half puzzling but peremptory.
The mat heavy light grey of putty -coloured houses,
like thickening merely of hot summer atmosphere
without sun, gave a spirituality to this deluge of
animal well-being, in weighty pale sense-solidarity.
Through the opaquer atmosphere sounds came lazily
or tinglingly. People had become a Balzacian species,
boldly tragic and comic: like a cast of "Comedie
Humaine'' humanity off for the day, Balzac sleeping
immensely in the cemetery.
Tarr stopped at a dairy. He bought saladed
potatoes, a petit Suisse. The coolness, as he entered,
felt eerie. The dairyman, in blue-striped smock and
black cap, peaked and cylindrical, came out of an
inner room. Through its glasses several women
were visible, busy at a meal. This man's isolation
from the heat and mood of the world outside, im-
pressed his customer as he came forward with a
truculent " Monsieur I " Tarr, while his things were
done up, watched the women. The discreet voices,
severe reserve of keen business preoccupations,
showed the usual Paris commercante. The white,
black, and slate-grey of dresses, extreme neatness,
silent felt over-slippers, make their commercial
devotions rather conventual. With this purchase-
followed by one of strawberries at a fruiterers
onposite— his destination was no longer doubtful.
He was going to Bertha's to eat his lunch Hence
the double quantity of saladed potatoes. He skirted
the railings of the Luxembourg Gardens for fifteen
vards. Crossing the road, he entered the Eue
Martine, a bald expanse of uniformly coloured rosy-
grey paVement, plaster, and shutter. A large iron
late led into a short avenue of trees. At its end
Bertha lived in a three-story house.
The leaden brilliant green of spring foliage hung
above him, ticketing innumerably the trees, sultry
smoke volumes from factories in Fairyland. Its
36
novelty, fresh yet dead, had the effectiveness of an
unnecessary mirage. The charm of habit and
monotony he had come to affront seemed to have
coloured, chemically, these approaches to its
home.
He found Bertha's eye fixed on him with a sort of
humorous indifferent query from the window. He
smiled, thinking what would be the veritable answer !
On finding himself in the presence of the object of
his erudite discussion, he felt he had got the focus
wrong. This familiar life, with its ironical eye,
mocked at him too. It was aware of the subject of
his late conversation. The twin of the shrewd
feeling embodied in the observation, " One can never
escape from oneself," appeared.
This ironical unsurprised eye at the window, so
vaguely apropos, offended him. It seemed to be
making fun of the swaggering indifference he was
bringing to bask in the presence of its object. He
became slightly truculent.
11 Have you had lunch yet, my dear ? " he asked,
as she opened the door to him. " I've brought you
some strawberries."
" I didn't expect you, Sorbet. No, I've not had
lunch. I was just going to get it." (Sorbet, or in
English, Sherbert, was his nom d'amour, a perversion
of his name, Sorbert).
Bertha's was the intellectually fostered Greek type
of German handsomeness. It is that beauty that
makes you wonder, when you meet it, if German
mothers have replicas and photographs of the Venus
of Milo in their rooms during the first three months
of their pregnancy. It is also found in the pages of
Prussian art periodicals, the arid, empty intellec-
tualism of Munich. She had been a heavy baby.
Her body now, a self-indulgent athlete's, was strung
to heavy motherhood.
A great believer in tepid " air-baths," she would
remain, for hours together, in a state of nudity about
her rooms. She was wearing a pale green striped
affair, tight at the waist. It looked as though meant
37
for a smaller woman. It may have belonged to her
sister. As a result, her ample form had left the
fullness of a score of attitudes all over it, in flat
creasings and pencillings — like the sanguine of an
Italian master in which the leg is drawn in several
positions, one on top of the other.
" What have you come for, Sorbet ? "
" To see you. What did you suppose ? "
" Oh, you have come to see me ? "
" I brought these things. I thought you might be
hungry."
" Yes, I am rather." She stopped in the passage,
Dryad-like on one foot, and stared into the kitchen.
Tarr did not kiss her. He put his hand on her hip —
a way out of it — and led her into the room. His
hand remarked that she was underneath in her
favourite state of nakedness.
Bertha went into the kitchen with the provisions.
She lived in two rooms on one side of the front door.
Her friend, Fraulein Goenthner, to whom she sub-let,
lived on the other side of it, the kitchen promis-
cuously existing between, and immediately facing the
entrance.
Tarr was in the studio or salon. It was a complete
bourgeois-bohemian interior. Green silk cloth and
cushions of various vegetable and mineral shades
covered everything, in mildewy blight. The cold,
repulsive shades of Islands of the Dead, gigantic
cypresses, grottos of Teutonic nymphs, had invaded
this dwelling. Purple metal and leather steadily
dispensed with expensive objects. There was the
plaster cast of Beethoven (some people who have
frequented artistic circles get to dislike this face
extremely), brass jars from Normandy, a photograph
of Mona Lisa (Tarr hated the Mona Lisa).
A table just by the window, laid with a white
cloth, square embroidered holes at its edges, was
where Tarr at once took up his position. Truculence
was denoted by his thus going straight to his eating-
place.
Installed in the midst of this ridiculous life, he
38
gave a hasty glance at his " indifference " to see
whether it were safe and sound. Seen through it, on
opening the door, Bertha had appeared unusual.
This impressed him disagreeably. Had his rich and
calm feeling of bounty towards her survived the
encounter, his " indifference " might also have
remained intact.
He engrossed himself in his sense of physical well-
being. Prom his pocket he produced a tin box
containing tobacco, papers, and a little steel machine
for rolling cigarettes given him by Bertha. A long
slim hinged shell, it nipped in a little cartridge of
tobacco, which it then slipped with inside a paper
tube, and slipping out again empty, the cigarette was
made.
Tarr began manufacturing cigarettes. Eeflections
from the shining metal in his hand scurried about
amongst the bilious bric-a-brac. Like a layer of
water lying on one of oil, the light heated stretch by
the windows appeared distinct from the shadowed
part of the room.
This place was cheap and dead, but rich with the
same lifelessness as the trees without. These looked
extremely near and familiar at the opened windows,
breathing the same air continually as Bertha. But
they were dusty, rough, and real.
Bertha came in from the kitchen. She went on
with a trivial rearrangement of her writing-table.
This had been her occupation as he appeared at the
gate beneath, drawing her ironical and musing eye
from his image to himself. A new photograph of
Tarr was being placed on her writing-table flush with
the window. Ten days previously it had been taken
in that room. It had ousted a Klinger and generally
created a restlessness, to her eye, in the other objects.
" Ah, you've got the photographs, have you ? — Is
that me?"
She handed it to him.
11 Yes, they came yesterday ! "
11 Yesterday " he had not been there ! Whatever
he asked at the present moment would draw a softly
39
thudding answer, heavy German reproach concealed
in it with tireless ingenuity. These photographs
would under other circumstances have been produced
on his arrival with considerable noise.
Tarr had looked rather askance at this portrait and
Bertha's occupation. There was his photograph,
calmly, with an air of permanence, taking up its
position on her writing-table, just as he was preparing
to vanish for good.
" Let's see yours," he said, still holding the photo-
graph.
What strange effects all this complicated activity
inside had on the surface, his face. A set sulky
stagnation, every violence dropping an imperceptible
shade on to it, the features overgrown with this
strange stuff — that twist of the head that was him,
and that could only be got rid of by breaking.
" They're no good," she said, closing the drawer,
handing her photographs, sandwiched with tissue-
paper, to Sorbert. "That one " — a sitting pose, face
yearning from photograph, lighted, not with a smile,
but a sort of sentimental illumination, the drapery
arranged like a poster — " I don't think that's so
bad," she said slangily, meant to be curt and
" cheeky."
" What an idiot ! " he thought ; " what a face ! "
A consciously pathetic ghost of a smile, a clumsy
sweetness, the energetic sentimental claim of a
rather rough but frank self.
There was a photograph of her in riding habit.
This was the best of them. He softened.
Then came a photograph of them together.
How strangely that twist of his, or set angle of the
head, fitted in with the corresponding peculiarities
of the woman's head and bust. What abysms of
idiocy ! Eubbishy hours and months formed the
atmosphere around these two futile dolls !
He put the photographs down and looked up. She
was sitting on the edge of the table. The dressing-
gown was open, and one large thigh, with ugly
whiteness, slid half out of it. It looked dead, and
40
connected with her like a ventriloquist's dummy with
its master. It was natural to wonder where his
senses had gone in looking at these decorous photo-
graphs. This exhibition appeared to be her expla-
nation of the matter. The face was not very original.
But a thigh cannot be stupid to the same degree.
He gazed surlily. Her musing expression at this
moment was supremely absurd. He smiled and
turned his face to the window. She pretended to
become conscious suddenly of something amiss. She
drew the dressing-gown round her.
" Have you paid the man yet ? What did he
charge ? I expect "
Tarr took up the packet again.
11 Oh, these are six francs. I forget what the big
ones are. I haven't paid him yet. He's coming to
photograph Miss Goenthner to-morrow."
They sat without saying anything.
He examined the room as you do a doctor's waiting-
room.
He had just come there to see if he could turn his
back on it. That appeared at first sight a very easy
matter. That is why he so far had not succeeded in
doing so. Never put on his mettle, his standing
army of will was not sufficient to cope with it. But
would this little room ever appear worth turning his
back on ? It was the purest distillation of the
commonplace. He had become bewitched by its
strangeness. It was the height of the unreal. Bertha
was like a fairy that he visited, and " became
engaged " to in another world, not the real one. It
was so much the real ordinary world that for him
with his out-of-the-way experience it was a phantas-
magoria. Then what he had described as his disease
of sport was perpetually fed. Sex even with him,
according to his analysis, being a sort of ghost, was
at home in this gross and buffonic illusion. Some-
thing had filled up a blank and become saturated
with the blankness.
How much would Bertha mind a separation ?
Tarr saw in her one of those clear, humorous, super -
41
ficial natures, a Venetian or a Viennese, the easy-
product of a cynical and abundant life. He under-
rated the potency of his fascination. Secondly, he
miscalculated the depths of obedient attachment he
had wakened.
They sat impatiently waiting. A certain formality
had to be observed. Then the business of the day
could be proceeded with. They were both bored
with the part imposed by the punctilious and
ridiculous god of love. Bertha, into the bargain,
wanted to get on with her cooking. She would have
cut considerably the reconciliation scene. All her
side of the programme had been conscientiously done.
" Berthe, tu es une brave fille ! "
11 Tu trouves ? "
"Oui."
More inaction followed on Tarr's part. She some-
times thought he enjoyed these ceremonies.
Through girlhood her strong senses had churned
away at her, and claimed an image from her gentle
and dreamy mind. In its turn the mind had accumu-
lated its impressions of men, fancies from books and
conversations, and made its hive. So her senses
were presented with the image that was to satisfy
and rule them. They flung themselves upon it as
she had flung herself upon Tarr.
This image left considerable latitude. Tarr had
been the first to fit — rather paradoxically, but all
the faster for that.
This " high standard Aryan female," as Tarr
described her, had arrived, with him, at the full and
headlong condition we agree to name " love." The
image, or type, was thrown away. The individual
took its place.
Bertha had had several sweethearts before Tarr.
They had all left the type-image intact. At most it
had been a little blurred by them. It had almost
been smashed for one man, physically resembling
Tarr. But he had never got quite near enough to
do that. Tarr had characteristically supposed this
image to have little sharpness of outline left. He
42
thought it would not be a very difficult matter for
any one to extort its recognition.
" Vous etes mon gout, Sorbet. Du bist mein
gesmack," she would say.
Tarr was not demonstrative when she said this.
He could not reciprocate. And he could not help
reflecting whether to be " her taste " was very
flattering. There must be something the matter
with him.
All her hope centred in his laziness. She watched
his weaknesses with a loving eye. He had much to
say about his under-nature. She listened attentively.
11 It is the most dangerous quality of all to possess,"
and he would sententiously add — " only the best
people possess it, in common with the obscure and
humble. It is like a great caravanserai in which
scores of people congregate. It is a disguise in which
such a one, otherwise Pasha, circulates among
unembarrassed men. He brings away stores of
wisdom, with much diversion by the way." He saw,
however, the danger of these facilities. The Pasha
had been given a magic mask of humbleness. But
the inner nature seemed flowing equally to the mask
and the unmasked magnificence. He was as yet
unformed, but wished to form wholly Pasha. This
under-nature' s chief use was as a precious vilUgiature
for his energy. Bertha was the country wench the
more exalted incarnation had met while on its holidays,
or, wandering idle Khalife, in some concourse of his
surreptitious life.
His three days' unannounced and uncommented
"leave" had made Bertha very nervous. She
suffered from the incomplete, unsymmetrical appear-
ance her life now presented. Everything spread out
palpably before her, that she could arrange like a
roomful of furniture, was how she liked it. Even in
her present shakedown of a life, Tarr had noticed the
way he was treated as material for " arrangement."
But she had never been able to indulge this idiosyn-
crasy much in the past. This was not the first time
43
that she had found herself in a similar position.
Hence her certain air of being at home in these
casual quarters, which belied her.
The detested temporary dwelling in the last few
days had been given a new coat of sombre thought.
Found in accidental quarters, had she not been over-
delicate in not suggesting an immediate move into
something more homelike and permanent. People
would leave her there for the rest of her natural life
unless she were a little brutal and got herself out
somehow. No shadow of un-nice feeling ever tainted
her abject genuineness. Cunning efforts to retain
him abounded. But she never blamed or turned on
him. She had given herself long ago, at once,
without ceremony. She awaited his thanks or no
thanks simply.
But the itch of action was on her.
Tarr's absences were like light. His presence was
a shadow. They were both stormy. The last
absence had illuminated the undiscipline of her life.
During the revealing luridness, she got to work.
Eeconstruction was begun. She had trusted too
much in Fate and obedient waiting Hymen.
So Bertha had a similar ferment to Tarr's.
Anger with herself, dreary appetite for action,
would help her over farewells. She was familiar
enough with them, too, in thought. She would not
stir a hand to change things. He must do that. She
would only facilitate things in all directions for him.
The new energy delivered attack after attack upon
her hope. She saw nothing beyond Tarr but measures
of utility. The " heart " had always been her most
cherished ornament. That Tarr would take with
him, as she would keep his ring and the books he
had given her. She could not now get it back for
the asking. She did not want it ! She must indulge
her mania for tasteful arrangement in future without
this. Or rather what heart she had left would be
rather like one of those salmon-coloured, corrugated
gas office-stoves, compared to a hearth with a fire of
pine.
U
Tarr had not brought his indifference there to make
it play tricks, perform little feats. Nor did he wish
to press it into inhuman actions. It was a humane
" indifference," essentially. So with reluctance he
got up, and went over to her.
" You haven't kissed me yet," he said, in imitation
of her.
11 Why kiss you, Sorbet % " she managed to say
before her lips were closed. He drew her ungraciously
and roughly into his arms, and started kissing her
on the mouth. She covered him, docilely, with her
inertia. He was supposed to be performing a miracle
of bringing the dead to life. Gone about too crudely,
the willing mountebank, Death, had been offended.
It is not thus that great spirits are prevailed upon to
flee. Her " indifference " — the great, simulated, and
traditional — would not be ousted by an upstart and
younger relative. By Tarr himself, grown repentant,
yes. But not by another " indifference." Then his
brutality stung her offended spirit, that had been
pursing itself up for so many hours. Tears began
rolling tranquilly out of her eyes in large dignified
drops. They had not been very far back in the wings.
He received them frigidly. She was sure, thought
he, to detect something unusual during this scene.
Then with the woman's bustling, desperate, posses-
sive fury, she suddenly woke up. She disengaged her
arms wildly and threw them round his neck, tears
becoming torrential. Underneath the poor comedian
that played such antics with such phlegmatic and
exasperating persistence, this distressed being thrust
up its trembling mask, like a drowning rat. Its finer
head pierced her blunter wedge.
u Oh ! dis, Sorbet ! Est-ce que tu m'aime ?
M'aime-tu ? Dis ! "
11 Yes, you know. Don't cry."
A wail, like the buzzing on a comb covered with
paper followed.
M Oh, dis ; m'aimes-tu ! Dis que tu m'aime ! "
A blurting, hurrying personality rushed right up
into his face. It was like the sightless clammy
45
charging of a bat. More eloquent regions had
ambushed him. Humbug had mysteriously departed.
It was a blast of knifelike air in the middle of their
hot -house. He stared at her face groping up as
though it scented troubles in his face. It pushed to
right and then to left and rocked itself. Intelligent
and aware, it lost this intensity.
A complicated image developed in his mind as he
stood with her. He was remembering Schopenhauer.
It was of a Chinese puzzle of boxes within boxes, or
of insects' discarded envelopes. A woman had in the
middle of her a kernel, a sort of very substantial
astral baby. This baby was apt to swell. She then
became all baby. The husk he held was a painted
mummy-case. He was a mummy-case too. Only
he contained nothing but innumerable other painted
cases inside, smaller and smaller ones. The smallest
was not a substantial astral baby, however, or live
core, but a painting like the rest. His kernel was a
painting. That was as it should be !
He was half sitting on the table. He found him-
self patting her back. He stopped doing this. His
face looked heavy and fatigued. A dull, intense
infection of her despair had filled it.
He held her head gently against his neck. Or he
held her skull against his neck. She shook and
sniffed softly.
" Bertha, stop crying. I know I'm a brute. But
it's fortunate for you that I am. I'm only a brute.
There's nothing to cry for."
He over-estimated deafness in weepers. And when
women flooded their country he always sat down and
waited. Often as this had happened to him, he had
never attempted to circumvent it. He felt like a
person who is taking a little dog for a walk at the
end of a string. His voice appeared husky and
artificial near her ear.
Turned towards the window, he looked at the
green stain of the foliage outside. Something was
explained. Nature was not friendly to him ; its
metallic tints jarred. Or anyhow, it was the same
46
for all men. The sunlight seen like an adventurous
stranger in the streets was intimate with Bertha.
The scrap of crude forest had made him want to be
away unaccompanied. But it was tainted with her.
If he went away now he would only be playing at
liberty. He had been right in not accepting the
invitations of the spring. The settlement of this
question stood between him and pleasure. A mo-
mentary well-being had been accepted. The larger
spiritual invitation he had rejected. He would only
take that when he was free. In its annual expansion
Nature sent its large unstinting invitations. But
Nature loved the genius and liberty in him. Tarr
felt the invitation would not have been so cordial
had he proposed taking a wife and family !
He led her passively protesting to the sofa. Like
a sick person, she was half indignant at being moved.
He should have remained, a perpendicular bed for
her, till the fever had passed. Eevolted at the
hypocrisy required, he left her standing at the edge
of the sofa. She stood crouching a little, her face
buried in her hands, in indignant absurdity. The
only moderately clean thing to do would be to walk
out of the door at once and never come back. With
his background of months of different behaviour this
could not be done.
She sank down on the sofa, head buried in the
bilious cushions. She lay there like an animal, he
thought, or some one mad, a lump of half -humanity.
On one side of him Bertha lay quite motionless and
silent, and on the other the little avenue was equally
still. The false stillness within, however, now gave
back to the scene without its habitual character. It
still seemed strange to him. But all its strangeness
now lay in its everyday and natural appearance.
The quiet inside, in the room, was what did not seem
strange to him. He had become imbued with that.
Bertha's numb silence and abandon was a stupid
tableau vivant of his own mood. In this impasse of
arrested life he stood sick and useless. They pro-
gressed from stage to stage of this weary farce. Con-
47
fusion increased. It resembled a combat between
two wrestlers of mathematically equal strength.
Neither could win. One or other of them was
usually wallowing warily or lifelessly on his stomach,
the other tugging at him or examining and prodding
his carcass. His liking, contempt, realization of her
love for him, his confused but exigent conscience,
dogged preparation to say farewell, all dovetailed
with precision. There she lay a deadweight. He
could take his hat and go. But once gone in this
manner he could not stay.
He turned round, and sitting on the window-sill
began again staring at Bertha.
Women's stormy weakness, psychic discharges,
always affected him as the sight of a person being
seasick. It was the result of a weak spirit, as the
other was the result of a weak stomach. They could
only live on thQ retching seas of their troubles on the
condition of being quite empty. The lack of art or
illusion in actual life enables the sensitive man to exist.
Likewise the phenomenal lack of nature in the average
man's existence is lucky and necessary for him.
Tarr in some way gathered strength from con-
templation of Bertha. His contradictory and dis-
located feelings were brought into a new synthesis.
Launching himself off the window-sill, he stood still
as though suspended in thought. He then sat down
provisionally at the writing-table, within a few feet
of the sofa. He took up a book of Goethe's poems
that she had given him. In cumbrous field-day dress
of Gothic characters, squad after squad, these poems
paraded their message. He had left it there on a
former visit. He came to the ode named " Ganymed,"
Wie im Morgenglanze
Du rings mich angluhst
Fruhling, Oeliebter !
Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne
Sich an mein herz drdngt
Deiner ewigen Warme
Heilig, Gefiihl,
Unendliche Schone !
48
He put it in his breast-pocket. As soldiers go into
battle sometimes with the Bible in their pocket, he
prepared himself for a final combat, with Goethe
upon his person. Men's lives have been known to
have been saved through a lesser devoutness.
He was engaging battle again with the most
chivalrous sentiments. The reserves had been called
up, his nature mobilized. As his will gathered force
and volume (in its determination to " fling " her) he
unhypocritically keyed up its attitude. It resembled
extreme cunning. He had felt, while he had been
holding her, at a disadvantage because of his listless
emotion. With emotion equal to hers, he could
accomplish anything. Leaving her would be child's
play. He appeared to be projecting the manufacture
of a more adequate sentiment.
Any indirectness was out of the question. A
" letting her down softly," kissing and leaving in an
hour or two, as though things had not changed, that
must now be eschewed — oh, yes. The genuine
section of her, of which he had a troubled glimpse,
mattered, nothing else. He must appeal obstinately
to that. Their coming together had been prosecuted
on his side with a stupid levity. He would retrieve
this in the parting. He wished to do everything
most opposite to his previous lazy conduct. He
frowned on Humour.
The first skirmish of his comic Armageddon had
opened with the advance of his mysterious and
goguenard " indifference." This dwindled away at
the first onset. A new and more powerful thing had
taken its place. This was, in Bertha's eyes, a
difference in Tarr.
" Something has happened ; he is different" she
said to herself. " He has met somebody else," had
been her rapid provisional conclusion.
She suddenly got up without speaking. Eather
spectrally, she went over to the writing-table for her
handkerchief. She had not moved an inch or a
muscle until quite herself again, dropping steadily
49 D
down all the scale of feeling to normal. With
matter-of-factness she got up, easily and quietly,
making Sorbert a little dizzy.
Her face had all the drama wrung out of it. It was
hard, clear, and garishly white, like her body.
If he were to have a chance of talking he must
clear the air of electricity completely. Else at his
first few words storm might return.
Once lunch had swept through the room, things
would be better. He would send the strawberries
ahead to prepare his way. It was like fattening a
lamb for the slaughter. This idea pleased him.
Now that he had accepted the existence of a possible
higher plane of feeling as between Bertha and himself,
he was anxious to avoid display. So he ran the risk
of outdoing his former callousness. Tarr was satu-
rated with morbid English shyness, that cannot
tolerate passion and its nakedness. This shyness, as
he contended, in its need to show its heart, discovers
subtleties and refinements of expression, opposites
and between shades, unknown to less gauche and
delicate people. But if he were hustled out of his
shell the anger that co-existed with his modesty was
the most spontaneous thing he possessed. Bertha
had always left him alone.
He got up, obsequiously reproducing in his own
movements and expression her new normality.
" Well, how about lunch ? I'll come and help
you with it."
" There's nothing to do. I'll get it."
Bertha had wiped her eyes with the attentiveness
a man bestows on his chin after a shave, in little
brusque hard strokes. She did not look at Tarr.
She arranged her hair in the mirror, then went to
the kitchen. For her to be so perfectly natural
offended him.
The intensity of her past feeling carried her on for
about five minutes into ordinary life. Her serious-
ness was tactful for so long. Then her nature began
to give way. It broke up again into fits and starts
50
of selfconsciousness. The mind was called in, did its
work clumsily as usual. She became her usual self.
Sitting on the stool by the window, in the act of
eating, Tarr there in front of her, it was more than
ever impossible to be natural. She resented the
immediate introduction of lunch in this way. The
resentment increased her artificiality.
To counterbalance the acceptance of food, she had
to throw more pathos into her face. With haggard
resignation she was going on again ; doing what was
asked of her, partaking of this lunch. She did so
with unnecessary conscientiousness. Her strange
wave of dignity had let her in for this ? Almost she
must make up for that dignity ! Life was confusing
her again ; it was useless to struggle.
" Aren't these strawberries good ? These little
hard ones are better than the bigger strawberries.
Have some more cream ? "
" Thank you." She should have said no. But
being greedy in this matter she accepted it, with
heavy air of some subtle advantage gained.
" How did the riding lesson go off ? " She went
to a riding school in the mornings.
" Oh, quite well, thank you. How did your lesson
go off? " This referred to his exchange of languages
with a Eussian girl.
" Admirably, thank you."
The Eussian girl was a useful feint for her.
" What is the time ? " The time ? What cheek !
He was almost startled.
He took his heavy watch out and presented its
face to her ironically.
" Are you in a hurry ? " he asked.
11 No, I just wondered what the time was. I live
so vaguely."
11 You are sure you are not in a hurry ? "
" Oh, no ! "
" I have a confession to make, my dear Bertha."
He had not put his watch back in his pocket. She
had asked for the watch ; he would use it. "I came
here just now to test a funnv mood — a quite new
51
mood. My visit is a sort of trial trip of this mood.
It was connected with you. I wanted to find out
what it meant, and how it would be affected by your
presence."
Bertha looked up with mocking sulky face, a shade
of hopeful curiosity.
" It was a feeling of complete indifference as regards
yourself ! "
He said this solemnly, with the pomp with which a
weighty piece of news might be delivered by a solicitor
in conversation with his client.
" Oh, is that all ? " The new barbaric effort was
met by Bertha scornfully.
" No, that is not all."
Catching at the professional figure his manner had
conjured up, he ran his further remarks into that
mould. The presence of. his watch in his hand had
brought some image of the family physician or gouty
attorney. It all centred round the watch, and her
interest in the time of day.
" I have found that this was only another fraud
on my too credulous sensibility." He smiled with
professional courtesy. " At sight of you, my mood
evaporated. But what I want to talk about is what
is left. It would be well to bring our accounts up
to date. I'm afraid the reckoning is enormously
against me. You have been a criminally indulgent
partner "
He had now got the image down to the more precise
form of two partners, perhaps comfortable wine
merchants, going through their books.
" My dear boy, I know that. You needn't trouble
to go any further. But why are you going into
these calculations, and sums of profit and loss ? "
"Because my sentimental finances, if I may use
that term, are in a bad state."
" Then they only match your worldly ones."
" In my worldly ones I have no partner," he
reminded her.
gj She cast her eyes about in swoops, full of self-
possessed wildness.
52
" I exonerate you, Sorbet," she said, " you
needn't go into details. What is yours and what is
mine. Mv God ! What does it matter ? Not
much ! "
" I know you to be generous "
" Leave that then ! Leave these calculations !
All that means so little to me ! I feel at the end of
my strength — an bout de force ! " She always heaved
this out with much energy. " If you've made up
your mind to go — do so, Sorbet. I release you !
You owe me nothing. It was all my fault. But
spare me a reckoning. I can't stand any more "
11 No, I insist on being responsible. We can't
leave things upside down — our books in an endless
muddle, our desks open, and just walk away for ever
— and perhaps set up shop somewhere else ? "
" I do not feel in any mood to ' set up shop some-
where else,' I can assure you ! "
The unbusinesslike element in the situation she
had allowed to develop for obvious reasons. She
now resisted his dishonest attempt to set this right,
and benefit first, as he had done, by disorder, and
lastly by order.
11 We can't, in any case, improve matters by
talking. I — I, you needn't fear for me, Sorbet. I
can look after myself, only don't let us wrangle,"
with appealing gesture and saintlily smiling face,
11 let us part friends. Let us be worthy of each
other."
Bertha always opposed to Tarr's images her
Teutonic lyricism, usually repeating the same phrases
several times.
This was degenerating into their routine of wrangle.
Always confronted by this imperturbable, deaf and
blind " generosity," the day would end in the usual
senseless " draw." His words still remained unsaid.
" Bertha, listen. Let us, just for fun, throw all
this overboard. I mean the cargo of inflated soul-
stuff that makes us go statelily, no doubt, but —
Haven't we quarrelled enough, and said these things
often enough ? Our quarrels have been our undoing.
53
A long chain of little quarrels has bound us down.
We should neither of us be here if it hadn't been for
them."
Bertha gazed at Tarr half wonderingly. She
realized that something out of the ordinary was on
foot.
Tarr proceeded.
11 I have accepted from you a queer sentimental
dialect of life, I should have insisted on your express-
ing yourself in a more logical and metropolitan
speech. Let us drop it. There is no need to talk
negro, baby-talk, or hybrid drivel from no-man's-land.
I don't think we should lead a very pleasant married
life — naturally. In the second place, you are not a
girl who wants an intrigue, but to marry. I have
been playing at fiance with a certain pleasure in the
novelty, but I experience a genuine horror at the
possible consequences. I have been playing with
you ! "
He said this eagerly, as though it were a point in
his argument — as it was. He paused, for effect
apparently.
" You, for your part, Bertha, don't do yourself
justice when you are acting. I am in the same
position. I feel this. My ill-humour occasionally
falls in your direction — yours, for its part, falling in
mine when I criticize your acting. We don't act well
together, and that's a fact ; though I'm sure we
should be smooth enough allies off the boards of love.
Your heart, Bertha, is in the right place ; ah, ?a "
" You are too kind ! "
"But— but I will go further! At the risk of
appearing outrageously paradoxical. This heart in
question is so much part of your intelligence,
too "
" Thanks ! Thanks ! "
" — despite your execrable fatuity as an actress !
Your shrewdness and goodness give each other the
hand. — But to return to my point. I had always
till I met you regarded marriage as a thing beyond
all argument not for me. I was unusually isolated
54
from this idea, anyway ; I had never even reflected
what marriage was. You introduced me to marriage !
In so doing you are responsible for all our troubles.
The approach of this horrible thing, so surprisingly
pleasant and friendly at nearer sight, caused revulsion
of feeling beyond my control, resulting in sudden
fianfailles. Like a woman luxuriously fingering some
merchant's goods, too dear for her, or not wanted
enough for the big price, so I philandered with the
idea of marriage."
This simplification put things, merely, in a new
callous light. Tarr felt that she must naturally be
enjoying, too, his points. He forgot to direct his
exposition in such a way as to hurt her least. This
trivial and tortured landscape had a beauty for him
he could have explained, where her less developed
sense saw nothing but a harrowing reality.
The lunch had had the same effect on him that it
was intended to have on his victim ; not enough to
overthrow his resolution, but enough to relax its
form.
As to Bertha, this seemed, in the main, " Sorbet
all over." There was nothing new. There was the
11 difference." But it was the familiar process ; he
was attempting to convince himself, heartlessly, on
her. Whether he would ever manage it was prob-
lematic. There was no sign of his being likely to do
so more to-day than any other day. She listened ;
sententiously released him from time to time.
Just as she had seemed strange to him in some way
when he came in, seen through his " indifference,"
so he had appeared a little odd to her. This had
wiped off the dullness of habit for a moment. This
husband she obstinately wanted had been recognized.
She had seized him round the shoulders and clung to
him, as though he had been her child that some
senseless force were about to snatch.
As to his superstition about marriage — was it not
merely restlessness of youth, propaganda of Liberty,
that a year or so would see in Limbo ? For was he
not a " marrying man " ? She was sure of it ! She
55
had tried not to frighten him, and to keep " Marriage "
in the background.
So Tarr's disquisition had no effect except for one
thing. When he spoke of pleasure he derived from
idea of marriage, she wearily pricked up her ears.
The conviction that Tarr was a domesticated animal
was confirmed from his own lips. The only result of
his sortie was to stimulate her always vigilant hope
and irony, both, just a little. He had intended to
prepare the couch for her despair !
His last words, affirming Marriage to be a game
not worth the candle, brought a faint and " weary "
smile to her face. She was once more, obviously,
an bout de force.
" Sorbert ; I understand you. Do realize that.
There is no necessity for all this rigmarole with me.
If you think you shouldn't marry — why, it's quite
simple ! Don't think that I would force you to
marry ! Oh, no ! " (The training guttural unctuous
accent she had in speaking English filled her discourse
with natural emphasis.) "I always said that you were
too young. You need a wife. You've just said
yourself about your feeling for marriage. But you
are so young ! " She gazed at him with compas-
sionate, half- smiling moistened look, as though there
were something deformed about being so young. A
way she had was to treat anything that obviously
pointed to her as the object of pity, as though it
manifestly indicated, on the contrary, Mm. " Yes,
Sorbet, you are right," she finished briskly. " I
think it would be madness for us to marry ! "
A suggestion that their leisurely journey towards
marriage was perhaps a mistake was at once seriously,
and with conviction far surpassing that he had
ventured on, taken up by her. She would imme-
diately call a halt, pitch tents preliminary to turning
back. A pause was necessary before beginning the
return journey. Next day they would be jogging on
again in the same disputed direction.
Tarr now saw at once what had happened. His
good words had been lost, all except his confession to
56
a weakness for the matronly blandishments of
Matrimony. He had an access of stupid, brief, and
blatant laughter.
As people have wondered what was at the core of
the world, basing their speculations on what deepest
things occasionally emerge, with violence, at its
holes, so Bertha often conjectured what might be at
the heart of Tarr. Laughter was the most apparently
central substance that, to her knowledge, had
incontrollably appeared. She had often heard gronde-
ments, grumblings, quite literally, and seen unpleasant
lights, belonging, she knew, to other categories of
matter. But they never broke cover.
At present this gaiety was interpreted as proof that
she had been right. There was nothing in what he
had said. It had been only one of his bad fits of
rebellion.
But laughter Tarr felt was retrogression. Laughter
must be given up. He must in some way, for both
their sakes, lay at once the foundations of an ending.
For a few minutes he played with the idea of
affecting her weapons. Perhaps it was not only
impossible to overcome, but even to approach, or to
be said to be on the same field with, this peculiar
amazon, without such uniformity of engines of attack
or defence. Should not he get himself a mask like
hers at once, and follow suit with some emphatic
sentence ? He stared uncertainly at her. Then he
sprang to his feet. He intended, as far as he could
see beyond this passionate movement (for he must
give himself up to the mood, of course) to pace the
room. But his violence jerked out of him a shout of
laughter. He went stamping about the floor roaring
with reluctant mirth. It would not come out
properly, too, except the first outburst.
" Ay. That's right ! Go on ! Go on ! " Bertha's
patient irony seemed to gibe.
This laughter left him vexed with himself, like a
fit of tears. "Humour and pathos are such near
twins, that Humour may be exactly described as the
most feminine attribute of man, and the only one of
57
which women show hardly any trace ! Jokes are like
snuff, a slatternly habit," said Tarr to Butcher once,
" whereas tragedy (and tears) is like tobacco, much
drier and cleaner. . Comedy being always the embryo
of Tragedy, the directer nature weeps. Women are
of course directer than men. But they have not the
same resources."
Butcher blinked. He thought of his resources,
and remembered his inclination to tears.
Tarr's disgust at this electric rush of sound made
him turn it on her. He was now put at a fresh
disadvantage. How could he ever succeed in making
Bertha believe that a person who laughed immode-
rately meant what he said? Under the shadow of this
laugh all his ensuing acts or words must toil, dis-
credited in advance.
Desperately ignoring accidents, he went back
beyond his first explosion, and attacked its cause —
indicting Bertha, more or less, as responsible for the
disturbance.
He sat down squarely in front of her, hardly
breathed from his paroxysm, getting launched without
transition. He hoped, by rapid plunging from one
state to another, to take the wind out of the laugh's
sails. It should be left towering, spectral, but
becalmed, behind.
" I don't know from which side to approach you,
Bertha. You frequently complain of my being
thoughtless and spoilt. But your uncorked solemnity
is far more frivolous than anything I can manage. —
Excuse me, of course, for speaking in this way ! —
Won't you come down from your pedestal just for a
few minutes ? " And he " sketched," in French
idiom, a gesture, as though offering her his hand.
" My dear Sorbert, I feel far from being on any
pedestal ! There's too little of the pedestal, if
anything, about me. Eeally, Sorbet," (she leant
towards him with an abortive movement as though
to take his hand) "I am your friend ; believe me I "
58
(Last words very quick, with nod of head and blink
of eyes.) " You worry yourself far too much. Don't
do so. You are in no way bound to me. If you
think we should part — let us part ! "
The " let us part ! " was precipitate, strenuous
Prussian, almost truculent.
Tarr thought : " Is it cunning, stupidity, disease
or what ? "
She continued of a sudden, shunting on to another
track of generosity :
" But I agree. Let us be franker. We waste too
much time talking, talking. You are different to-day,
Sorbet. What is it ? If you have met somebody
else "
11 If I had I'd tell you. There is besides nobody
else to meet. You are unique ! "
" Some one's been saying something to you "
" No. I've been saying something to somebody
else. But it's the same thing."
With half-incredulous, musing, glimmering stare
she drew in her horns.
Tarr meditated. " I should have known that. I
am asking her for something that she sees no reason
to give up. Next her gout for me, it is the most
valuable thing she possesses. It is indissolubly
mixed up with the gout. The poor heightened self
she laces herself into is the only consolation for me
and all the troubles I spring on her. And I ask her
brutally to ' come down from her pedestal.' I owe
even a good deal to that pedestal, I expect, as regards
her gout. This blessed protection Nature has given
her, I, a minute or two before leaving her, make a
last inept attempt to capture or destroy. Her good
sense is contemptuous and indignant. It is only in
defence of this ridiculous sentimentality that she has
ever shown her teeth. This illusion has enabled her
to bear things so long. It now stands ready with
Indian impassibility to manoeuvre her over the falls
or rapids of Parting. The scientific thing to do, I
suppose, my intention being generous, would be to
flatter and increase in some way this idea of herself.
59
I should give her some final and extraordinary
opportunity of being ■ noble.' "
He looked at her a moment, in search of inspiration.
" I must not be too vain. I exaggerate the
gravity of the hit. As to my attempted rape — see
how I square up when she shows signs of annexing
my illusion. We are really the whole time playing a
game of grabs and dashes at each other's fairy
vestment of Imagination. Only hers makes her very
fond of me, whereas mine makes me see any one but
her. Perhaps this is why I have not been more
energetic in my prosecution of the game, and have
allowed her to remain in her savage semi-naked state
of pristine balderdash. Why has she never tried to
modify herself in direction of my ' taste ' ? From
not daring to leave this protective fanciful self, while
I still kept all my weapons ? Then her initiative.
She does nothing it is the man's place to do. She
remains ' woman ' as she would say. Only she is so
intensely alive in her passivity, so maelstromlike in
her surrender, so cataclysmic in her sacrifice, that
very little remains to be done. The man's position
is a mere sinecure. Her charm for me."
To cover reflection, he set himself to finish lunch.
The strawberries were devoured mechanically, with
unhungry itch to clear the plate. He had become
just a devouring-machine, restless if any of the little
red balls still remained in front of it.
Bertha's eyes sought to carry her out of this
Present. But they had broken down, depositing
her, so to speak, somewhere half-way down the
avenue.
Tarr got up, a released automaton, and walked to
the cloth-covered box where he had left his hat and
stick. Then he returned in some way dutifully and
obediently to the same seat, sat there for a minute,
hat on knee. He had gone over and taken it up
without thinking. He only realized, once back, what
it meant. Nothing was settled, he had so far done
more harm than good. The presence of the hat and
stick on his knees, however, was like the holding open
60
of the front door already. Anything said with them
there could only be like words said as an afterthought,
on the threshold. It was as though, hat on head, he
were standing with his hand on the door-knob, about
to add some trifle to a thing already fixed. He got
up, walked back to where he had picked up the hat
and stick, placed them as they were before, then
returned to the window.
What should be done now ? He seemed to have
played all his fifty -two cards. Everything to " be
done " looked behind him, not awaiting him at all.
That passive pose of Bertha's was not encouraging.
It had lately withstood stoically a good deal, was
quite ready to absorb still more. There was some-
thing almost pugnacious in so much resignation.
But when she looked up at him there was no sign
of combat. She appeared stilled to something simple
again, by some fluke of a word. For the second
time that day she had jumped out of her skin.
Her heart beat in a delicate, exhausted way, her
eyelids became moistened underneath, as she turned
So her unusual fianc6. They had wandered, she felt,
into a drift of silence that hid a distant and unpleasant
prospect at the end of it. It seemed suddenly
charged with some alarming fancy that she could
not grasp. There was something more unusual than
her fianc& The circular storm, in her case, was
returning.
" WeU, Sorbet ? "
" Well. What is it ? "
" Why don't you go ? I thought you'd gone. It
seems so funny to see you standing there. What are
you staring at me f or % "
" Don't be silly."
She looked down with a wild demureness, her head
on one side.
Her mouth felt some distance from her brain. Her
voice stood on tiptoe like a dwarf to speak. She
became very much impressed by her voice, and was
rather afraid to say anything more. Had she
fainted % Sorbert was a stranger. The black stubble
61
on his chin and brown neck appeared like the
symptoms of a disease that repelled her. She
noticed something criminal and quick in his eyes.
She became nervous, as though she had admitted
somebody too trustingly to her rooms. This fancy
played on her hysteria, and she really wanted him
to go.
"Why don't you go? " she repeated, in a pleasant
voice.
Tarr remained silent, seemingly determined not to
answer.
Meantime he looked at her with a doubtful dislike.
What is love ? he began reasoning. It is either
possession or a possessive madness. In the case of
men and women, it is the obsession of a personality.
He had presumably been endowed with the power of
awaking love in her. He had something to accuse
himself of. He had been afraid of giving up or
repudiating this particular madness. To give up
another person's love is a mild suicide ; like a very
bad inoculation as compared to the full disease. His
tenderness for Bertha was due to her having purloined
some part of himself, and covered herself super-
ficially with it as a shield. Her skin at least was
Tarr. She had captured a bit of him, and held it as
a hostage. She was rapidly transforming herself,
too, into a slavish dependency. She worked with all
the hypocrisy of a great instinct.
People can wound by loving ; the sympathy of
this affection is interpenetrative. Love performs its
natural miracle, and they become part of us ; it is a
dismemberment to cast them off. Our own blood
flows out after them when they go.
Or love was a malady ; it was dangerous to live
with those consumed by it. He felt an uneasiness.
Might not a wasting and restlessness ensue ? It
would not, if he caught it, be recognizable as love.
Perhaps he had already got it slightly. That might
account for his hanging about her. He evidently
was suffering from something that came from Bertha.
Everybody, however, all personality, was catching.
62
We all are sicknesses for each other. Such contact
as he had with Bertha was particularly risky. Their
photographs he had just been looking at displayed
an unpleasant solidarity. Was it necessary to allege
" love " at all ? The word was superfluous in his
case. The fact was before him.
He felt suddenly despondent and afraid of the
Future. He had fallen beneath a more immediate
infection.
He looked attentively round the room. His
memory already ached. She had loved him with all
this. She had loved him with the plaster cast of
Beethoven, attacked him with the Klingers, ambushed
him from the Breton jars, in a funny, superficial,
absorbing way. Her madness had muddled every-
thing with his ideal existence. It wasn't like leaving
an ordinary room you had spent pleasant hours in
and would regret. You would owe nothing to that,
and it could not pursue you with images of wrong.
This room he was wronging, and left it in a different
way. She seemed, too, so humble in it, or through
it. The appeal of the little again. If he could only
escape from scale. The price of preoccupation with
the large was this perpetual danger from the little.
He wished he could look coldly on mere littleness,
and not want to caress and protect it when it was
human. Brutality was no doubt necessary for people
like him. Love was too new to him. He was not
inoculated enough with love.
He had callously been signing his name to a series
of brutalities, then, as though he were sure that
when the time came he would have a quite sufficient
stock of coldness to meet these debts. Yet he had
known from the first that he had not. Eventually
he would have to evade them or succumb. The
flourishes of the hand and mind had caused Bertha's
mute and mournful attitude. She thought she knew
him, but was amazed at his ignorance or pretence.
So he had now brought this new element into
relief. For the last hour he had been accumulating
difficulties, or rather unearthing some new one at
63
every step. Impossible to tackle en masse, they
were all there before him. The thought of " settling
everything before he went," now appeared monstrous.
He had, anyhow, started these local monsters and
demons, fishing them to the light. Each had a
different vocal explosiveness or murmur, inveighing
unintelligibly against each other. The only thing to
be done was to herd them all together and march
them away for inspection at leisure.
Sudden herdsman, with the care of a delicate and
antediluvian flock ; well ! — But what was Bertha to
be told ? Nothing. He would file out silently with
his flock, without any hornblasts or windings such as
he customarily affected.
" I am going now," he said at last, getting up.
She looked at him with startled interest.
" You are leaving me, Sorbet ? "
"No. At least, now I am going." He stooped
down for his hat and cane. " I will come and see
you to-morrow or the day after."
Closing the door quietly, with a petty carefulness,
he crossed the passage, belittled and guilty. He did
not wish to escape this feeling. It would be better
to enhance it. For a moment it occurred to him to
go back and offer marriage. It was about all he had
to offer. He was ashamed of his only gift ! But he
did not stop, he opened the front door and went
downstairs. Something raw and uncertain he seemed
to have built up in the room he had left. How long
would it hold together % Again he was acting in
secret, his errand and intentions kept to himself.
Something followed him like a restless dog.
64
PART II
DOOMED, EVIDENTLY. THE " FEAC "
CHAPTEE I
From his window in the neighbouring boulevard
Kreisler's eye was fixed blankly on a spot thirty feet
above the scene of the Hobson-Tarr dialogue. He
was shaving himself, one eye fixed on Paris. It
beat on this wall of Paris drearily. Had it been
endowed with properties of illumination and been
directed there earlier in the day, it would have
served as a desolate halo for Tarr's ratiocination.
For several days Kreisler's watch had been in the
Mont de Pi6te. Until some clock struck he was in
total ignorance of the time of day.
The late spring sunshine flooded, like a bursted
tepid star, the pink boulevard. The people beneath
crawled like wounded insects of cloth. A two-story
house terminating the Boulevard Pfeiffer covered the
lower part of the Cafe Berne.
Kreisler's room looked like some funeral vault.
Shallow, ill-lighted, and extensive, it was placarded
with nude and archaic images, painted on strips of
canvas fixed to the wall with drawing-pins. Imagin-
ing yourself in some Asiatic dwelling of the dead,
with the portraits of the deceased covering the holes
in which they had respectively been thrust, you would,
following your fancy, have turned to Kreisler seeking
to see in him some devout recluse who had taken
up his quarters there.
65 E
Kreisler was in a sense a recluse (although almost
certainly the fancy would have gasped and fallen at
his contact). But caf^s were the luminous caverns
where he could be said, most generally, to dwell ;
with, nevertheless, very little opening of the lips and
much recueillement or meditation ; therefore not
unworthy of some rank among the inferior and less
fervent solitudes.
A bed like an overturned cupboard, dark, and
with a red billow of cloth and feathers covering it
entirely ; a tesselated floor of dark red tile ; a little
rug, made with paint, carpet, cardboard, and horse-
hair, to represent a leopard — these, with chair, wash-
stand, easel, and several weeks' of slowly drifting and
shifting garbage, completed its contents.
Kreisler flicked the lather on to a crumpled news-
paper, with an irresponsible gesture. Each time his
razor was raised he looked at himself with a peering
vacancy. His face had long become a piece of
troublesome meat. Life did not each day deposit
an untidiness that could be whisked off by a Gillette
blade, as Nature did its stubble.
His face, it is true, wore like a uniform the frowning
fixity of the Prussian warrior. But it was such a rig-
out as the Captain of Koepenich must have worn,
and would take in nobody but a Teutonic squad.
The true German seeks every day, by little acts of
boorishness, to keep fresh this trenchant Prussian
attitude ; just as the German student, with his weekly
routine of duels, keeps courage simmering in times of
peace, that it may instantly boil up to war pitch
at the least sign from his Emperor.
He brushed his clothes in a sulky, vigorous way,
like a silent, discontented domestic of a shabby, lonely
master. He cleaned his glasses with the absorption
and tenderness of the short-sighted. Next moment
he was gazing through them, straddled on his flat
Slav nose — brushing up whimsical moustaches over
pouting mouth. This was done with two tiny ivory
brushes taken out of a small leather case — present
from a fiancee who had been alarmed that his
66
moustaches showed an unpatriotic tendency to
droop.
This old sweetheart just then disagreeably occupied
his mind. But he busied himself about further items
of toilet with increased precision. To a knock he
answered with careful " Come in." He did not take
his eyes from the glass, spotted blue tie being pinched
into position. He watched with impassibility above
and around his tie the entrance of a young woman.
" Good morning. So you're up already," she said
in French.
He treated her as coolly as he had his thoughts.
Appearing just then, she gave his manner towards
the latter something human to play on, with relief.
Imparting swanlike undulations to a short stout
person, eye fixed quizzingly on Kreisler's in the glass,
she advanced. Her manner was one seldom sure of
welcome, a little deprecatingly aggressive. She owned
humorously a good-natured face with protruding eyes,
gesticulated with, filling her silences with explosive
significance. Brows always raised. A soul made
after the image of injuries. A skin which w^ould
become easily blue in cold weather was matched with
a taste in dress inveterately blue. The Pas de Calais
had somehow produced her. Paris, shortly after-
wards, had put the mark of its necessitous millions
on a mean, lively child.
" Are you going to work to-day ? " came in a
minute or two.
11 No," he replied, putting his jacket on. " Do you
want me to ? "
11 It would be of certain use. But don't put your-
self out," with grin tightening all the skin of her
face, making it pink and bald and her eyes
drunken.
"I'm afraid I can't." Watched with sort of
appreciative raillery, he got down on his knees and
dragged a portmanteau from beneath the bed.
11 Susanna, what can I get on that ? " he asked simply,
as of an expert.
" Ah, that's where we are ? You want to pawn
67
this ? I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps they'd give
yon fifteen francs. It's good leather."
11 Perhaps twenty f " he asked. " I must have
them ! " he clamoured of a sudden, with energy that
astonished her.
She grimaced, looked very serious ; said, " Je ne
sais pas, vous savez ! " w r ith several vigorous, yet
rhythmical and rich, forward movements of the head.
She became the broker : Kreisler was pressing for a
sum in excess of regulations. Not for the world,
any more than had she been the broker in fact, would
she have valued it at a penny over what it seemed
likely to fetch.
" Je ne sais pas, vous savez ! " she repeated. She
looked even worried. She would have liked to please
Kreisler by saying more, but her business conscience
prevented her.
" Well, we'll go together."
This conversation was carried on strictly in dialect.
Suzanne understood him, for she was largely respon-
sible for the lingo in which Kreisler carried on conver-
sation with the French. This young woman had no
fixed occupation. She disappeared for periods to
live with men. She sat as a model.
" Your father hasn't sent yet ? " He shook his
head.
" Le cochon ! " she stuttered.
" But it will come to-morrow, or the day after,
anyway." The idiosyncrasies of these monthly letters
were quite familiar to her. The dress-clothes had
been pawned by her on a former occasion.
" What do you need twenty francs f or ? "
" I must have, not twenty, but twenty-five."
Her silence was as eloquent as face-muscles and
eye-fluid could make it.
" To get the dress-clothes out," he explained, fixing
her stolidly with his eye.
She first smiled slowly, then allowed her ready
mirth to grow, by mechanical stages, into laughter.
The presence of this small, indifferent, and mercenary
acquaintance irritated him. But he remained cool.
68
Just then a church clock began striking. He fore-
boded it was already ten, but not later. It struck
ten and then eleven. He leapt the hour — the clock
seemed rushing with him, in a second, to the more
advanced hour — without any flurry, quite calmly.
Then it struck twelve. He at once absorbed that
further hour as he had the former. He lived an hour
as easily and carelessly as he would have lived a
second. Could it have gone on striking he would
have swallowed, without turning a hair, twenty,
thirty strokes !
Going out with Suzanne, he turned the key care-
fully in the door. The concierge or landlord might
slip in and fire his things out in his absence.
The portmanteau, whisked up from the floor,
flopped along with him like a child's slack balloon.
He frowned at Suzanne and, prepared for surprises,
went warily down the stairs.
He had felt a raw twinge of anger as he had opened
the door, looking down at the first boards of his room.
A half an hour before, on waking, he had sat up in
bed and gazed at the crevice at its foot where a
letter, thrust underneath by the concierge, usually
lay. He had stared as though it had been a shock
to find nothing. That little square of rich bright
white paper was what he had counted on night to give
him — that he had expected to find on waking, as
though it were a secretion of those long hours. It
made him feel that there had been no night — long,
fecund, rich in surprises — but merely a barren moment
of sleep. A stale and garish continuation of yester-
day, no fresh day at all, had dawned. The chill and
phlegmatic appearance of his room annoyed him.
It was its inhospitable character that repelled the
envelope pregnant with revolutionary joy and serried
German marks. Its dead unchangeableness must
preclude all innovation. This spell of monotony on
his life he could not break. The room cut him off
from the world. He gazed around as a man may
eye a wife whom he suspects of intercepting his
correspondence. There was no reason why the letter
69
with his monthly remittance should have come on
that particular morning, already eight days overdue.
" If I had a father like yours ! " said Suzanne in
menacing, humorous sing-song, eyes bulging and head
nodding. At this vista of perpetual blackmail she
fell into a reverie.
"Never get your father off on your fiancee, Su-
zanne ! " Kreisler advised in reply.
II Comment ? " Suzanne did not understand, and
pulled a sour face.
" I had a fiancee."
" Oui. Tres bien. Tu t'es brouill6 avec elle ? "
II I have quarrelled with her ; yes. She married
my father. Or I married her, I may say, to my
father. That was a mistake."
" I believe you ! That, as you say, was careless !
You don't get on well with her ? "
" I never see her."
" You never go home ? "
Kreisler was too proud to reply to Suzanne very
often. He marched on, staring severely ahead.
" How long ago is it that you — how long have you
had that stepmother? "
" My father married four years ago."
" Married your — girl % "
" That's it."
" And that's why you have trouble ? She makes
the trouble. She is at the bottom of the trouble ?
Ah ! You never told me that. Now I understand
why. What's she like ? Is she nice % "
" Not bad."
They got near the Berne.
" Let's have a cup of coffee," Kreisler said.
Suzanne sat down — with the hiding of her red
hands, her guilty lofty silence, eyebrows raised as
though with a slimy pescine enamel, inducing an
impression of nefarious hurry and impermanence.
Kreisler was sour and full of himself. His bag
looked as though it should hold the properties or
merchandise of some illicit trade or amusement.
Suzanne seemed to triumph at this information.
70
She pressed and pressed in breathless undertone,
fascinated by something. Family dramas, of all
dramas, she had the expertest interest in.
" You remember the time I had to send three letters
to the old devil ? "
" Of course ! Three months ago, you mean ? "
Suzanne had taken a near and serious interest in
Otto's financial arrangements. She remembered dates
well, apart from that.
Otto did not proceed for some time. She stared
quizzingly and patiently past the tip of his nose.
" He then asked me to give up art. He told me
of two posts in German firms that were vacant.
That was her doing, the swine ! One was a station -
restaurant business."
" You refused ! "
" I didn't reply at all."
In this his methods were very similar to his father's.
The elder Kreisler had repeatedly infuriated his son,
calculating on such effect, by sending his allowance
only when written for, and even then neglecting his
appeal for several days. It came frequently wrapped
up in bits of newspapers, and his letters of demand
and expostulation were never answered. On two
occasions forty marks and thirty marks respectively
,had been deducted, merely as an irritative measure.
" Dites ! Whv don't you write to your step-
mother ? "
II Write to her ? No, I won't write to her."
" P'raps she wants you to. I should. Why don't
you write to her ? "
II I shall before — I shall some dav ! "
" Before what ? "
" Oh, before "
Suzanne once more glimmered into the absurd
distance.
11 He will send, I suppose ? "
" Now — ? Yes, I suppose sooner or later it will
turn up."
' ■ If it didn't what would you do ? You think it's
your stepmother who does it 1 Why don't you
71
manage her ? Yon are stupid. You must allow me
to tell you that."
Kreisler knew the end was not far off ; this might
be it. So much the better !
Kreisler's student days — a lifetime in itself — had
unfitted him, at the age of thirty -six, for practically
anything. He had only lost one picture so far.
This senseless solitary purchase depressed him when-
ever he thought of it. How dreary that cheque for
four pounds ten was ! Who could have bought it ?
It sold joylessly and fatally one day in an exhibition.
CHAPTEE II
Nine months previously Kreisler had arrived in Paris
at the Gare de Lyon, from Italy. He had left
Eome, according to his account, because the Italian
creditor is such a bad-tempered fellow, and he could
never get any sleep after 8 — or latterly 7.30 — even,
in the morning.
" Dear Colleague, — Expect me Thursday.
I am at last quitting this wretched city. I hope
that the room you mentioned is still free. Will
come at once to your address. With many
hearty greetings, — Yours,
Otto Kreisler."
He had dispatched this note before leaving to a
Herr Ernst Volker. — For some time he stood on the
Paris platform, ulster thrown back, smoking a lean
cigar, with a straw stuck in it. He was glad to be
in Paris. How busy the women, intent on travel,
were ! Groups of town-folk, not travellers, stood
like people at a show. Each traveller was met
by a phalanx of uninterested faces beyond the
gangway.
His standing on the platform was a little cere-
monious and military. He was taking his bearings.
72
Body and belongings with him were always moved
about with certain strategy. At last, with racial
menace, he had his things swept together, saying
heavily :
" Un viagre ! "
Ernst Volker was not in, but had left word he
would be there after dinner. It was in a pension.
He rented a studio as well in the garden behind. The
house was rather like a French Public Baths, two-
storied, of a dirty purple colour. Kreisler looked
up at it and felt that a very public sort of people
must live there, looking big and idle in their rooms
and constantly catching the eye of the stranger on
the pavement. He was led to the studio in rear of
the house, and asked to wait.
He turned round several long canvases and was
astonished to find dashing ladies in large hats before
him.
"Ha ha! Well, I'm damned! Bravo, Ernst!"
he exploded in his dull solitude, extremely amused.
Volker had not done this in Eome. — Even there he
had given indications of latent virtuosity, but had
been curbed by classic presences. Since arriving
in Paris he had blossomed prodigiously. He dealt
out a vulgar vitality by the peck to each sitter,
and they forgave him for making them comparatively
" ugly." He flung a man or woman on to nine feet
of canvas and pummelled them on it for a couple
of hours, until they promised to remain there or were
incapable of moving, so to speak. He had never
been able to treat people like this in any other way of
life, and was grateful to painting for the experience.
He always appeared to feel he would be expected to
apologize for his brutal behaviour as an artist, and
was determined not to do so.
A half -hour later, on his return, the servant
told him somebody was waiting in the studio. With
face not exhibiting joyful surprise, but rather
the collected look of a man of business arriving
at his office, he walked out quickly across the
garden.
73
When lie saw Kreisler the business look disappeared.
Nothing of his private self remained for the moment,
all engulfed in his friend's personality.
"But, Ernst! What beautiful pictures! What
pleasant company you left me to wait amongst ! —
How are you ? I am glad to see you again ! "
" Had a good journey ? Your letter amused me ! —
So Eome became too hot ? "
A little ! My dear chap, it was eine ganz ver-
dammte klemme ! In this last scuffle I lost — but I
lost ! — half the clothes off my back ! But chiefly
Italian clothes ; that is fortunate ! "
" Why didn't you write ? "
" Oh, it wasn't serious enough to call for help."
He dismissed the out-of-date notion at once ! —
" This is a nice place you've got." — Kreisler looked
round as though measuring it. He noticed Volker's
discomfort. He felt he was examining something
more intimate than the public aspect of a dwelling.
It was as though his friend were expecting a wife,
whom Kreisler had not met, to turn up suddenly.
" Have you dined ? — I waited until eight. Have
you . . . ? "
" I should like something to eat. Can we get
anything here ? "
" I'm afraid not. — It's rather late for this neigh-
bourhood. Let's take these things to your room — on
the way — and go to the Grands Boulevards."
They stayed till the small hours of the morning,
in the midst of " Paris by Night " of the German
bourgeois imagination, drinking champagne and
toasting the creditors Kreisler had left behind in
Eome.
Kreisler, measured by chairs or doors, was of im-
moderate physical humanity. He was of that select
section, corporally, that exceed the mean. His
long round thighs stuck out like poles. This large
body lounged and poised beside Volker in massive
control and over-reaching of civilized matter. It
was in Eome or in Paris. It had an air of possession
everywhere. Volker was stranger in Paris than his
74
companion, who had only just arrived. He felt a
little raw and uncomfortable, almost a tourist. He
was being shown " Paris by Night " ; almost literally,
for his inclinations had not taken him much to that
side of the town.
Objects — cocottes, newsvendors, waiters — flowed
through Kreisler's brain without trouble or surprise.
His heavy eyes were big gates of a self-centred city.
It was just a procession. There was no trade in the
town.
He was a property of Nature, or a favourite slave,
untidy and aloof. Kreisler so real and at home was
like a ghost sitting there beside him, for Ernst Volker.
He had not had the time to solidify yet in Paris by
all rights, and yet was so solid and accustomed at
once. This body was in Paris now ! — with an heroic
freedom.
Volker began looking for himself. He was only
made of cheap thin stuff. He picked up the pieces
quietly. This large rusty machine of a man smashed
him up like an egg-shell at every meeting. His shell
grew quickly again, but never got hard enough.
He was glad to see him again ! Kreisler was a good
fellow. — Despite himself Ernst Volker was fidgety at
the lateness of the hour. The next day Fraulein
Bodenaar, who was sitting for him, was due at 9.30.
But the first night of seeing his friend again — He
drank rather more than usual, and became silent,
thinking of his Westphalian home and his sister who
was not very well. She had had a bicycle accident,
and had received a considerable shock. He might
spend the summer with her and his mother at Berck-
sur-Mer or Calais. He would have gone home for a
week or so now, only an aunt he did not like was
staying there.
" Well, let's get back ! " said Kreisler, rather
thoughtful, too, at all the life he had seen.
75
CHAPTEE III
In Paris Ernst Volker had found himself. It
seemed especially constructed for him, such a won-
derful, large, polite institution. No one looked at
him because he was small. For money in Paris
represented delicate things, in Germany chiefly
gross ones. His money lent him more stature than
anything else could, and in a much more dignified
and subtle way than elsewhere. His talent benefited
for the first time by his money. Heavy tempera-
ment, primitive talent, had their big place, but money
had at last come into its own and got into the spiritual
sphere. A very sensible and soothing spirit reigned
in this seat of intelligence. A very great number of
sensible, well-dressed figures perambulated all over
these suave acres. Large tribes of " types " prose-
cuted their primitive enthusiasms in certain cafes,
unannoyed by either the populace or the differently
minded 61ite. The old romantic values he was used
to in his Fatherland were all deeply modified. Money
— that is luck and its power — was the genius of the
new world. American clothes were adapted for the
finer needs of the Western European.
On the evening following Kreisler's arrival Volker
had an engagement. The morning after that Kreisler
turned up at half -past twelve. Volker was painting
Fraulein Bodenaar. She was very smartly dressed,
in a tight German way. He displayed a disinclina-
tion to make Kreisler and his sitter acquainted.
He was a little confused. They arranged to meet at
dinner-time. He was going to lunch with Fraulein
Bodenaar.
Kreisler the night before had spent a good deal
of money in the German paradise beyond the river.
Volker understood by the particular insistent blank -
ness of Kreisler's eye that money was needed. He
was familiar with this look. Kreisler owed him
fifteen hundred marks. He had at first made an
effort to pay back Volker money borrowed, when
76
his allowance arrived. But in Borne, and earlier for
a short time in Munich, his friend's money was not
of so much value as it was at present. Ernst waived
repayment in an eager, sentimental way. The debt
grew. Kreisler had felt keenly the financial void
caused by Volker's going off to Paris. He had not
formulated to himself the real reason of his following
Volker. Nor had he taken the trouble to repudiate
it. He was now in the position of a man separated
for some months from his wife. He was in a luxurious
hurry to see once more the colour of Volker's gold.
Kreisler was very touchy about money, like many
borrowers. He sponged with discrimination. He
had not for some time required to sponge at all, as
Volker amply met his needs. So he had got rather
out of practice. He found this reopening of his
account with little friend Ernst a most delicate
business. It was worse than tackling a stranger.
He realized there might be a modification of Volker's
readiness to lend. He therefore determined to ask
for a sum in advance of actual needs, and by boldness
at once re-establish continuity.
After dinner he said :
" You remember Eicci ? Where I got my paints
the first part of the time. I had some trouble with
that devil before I left. He came round and made a
great scandal on the staircase. He shouted ' Bandit !
Ha ! ha ! Sporca la tua Madonna ! ' — how do you say
it ? — ' Sporco Tedesco.' Then he called the neighbours
to witness. He kept repeating he was ' not afraid
of me.' I took him by the ear and kicked him out ! "
he ended with florid truculence.
Volker laughed obsequiously but with discomfort.
Kreisler solicited his sympathetic mirth with a
masterful eye. He laughed himself, unnecessarily
heartily. A scene of violence in which a small man
was hustled, which Volker would have to applaud,
was a clever prelude. Then Otto began to be nice.
"I am sorry for the little devil ! I shall have the
money soon. I shall send it him. He shall not
suffer. Antonio, too. I don't owe much. I had to
77
settle most before I left. Himmel ! My landlord ! "
He choked mirthfully over his coffee a little, almost
upsetting it, then mincingly adjusted the cup to his
moustached lips.
If he had to settle up before he left, he could not
have much now, evidently ! There was a disagreeable
pause.
Volker stirred his coffee. He immediately showed
his hand, for he looked up and with transparent
innocence asked :
" By the way, Otto, you remember Blauenstein
at Munich ? "
" You mean the little Jew from whom everybody
used to borrow money ? " Kreisler fixed him severely
and significantly with his eye and spoke with heavy
deliberation.
" Did people borrow money from him ? I had
forgotten. Yes, that's the man. He has turned up
here ; who do you think with ? With Irma, the
Bohemian girl. They are living together — round the
corner there "
" Hum ! Are they ? She was a pretty little girl.
Do you remember the night Von Gerarde was
found stripped and tied to his door-handle ? He
assured me Irma had done it and had pawned his
clothes."
Was Volker thinking that Blauenstein's famous
and admitted function should be resorted to as an
alternative for himself by Kreisler f
" Volker, I can speak to you plainly ; isn't that
so ? You are my friend. What's more, already we
have — " he laughed strongly and easily. " My
journey has cost the devil of a lot. I shall be getting
my allowance in a week or so. Could you lend me
a small sum of money. When my money comes "
" Of course J But I am hard up. How much — ? "
These were three jerky efforts.
" Oh, a hundred and fifty or two hundred marks."
Volker's jaw dropped.
"lam afraid, my dear Kreisler, I can't — just now —
manage that. My journey, too, cost me a lot. I'm
78
very sorry. Let me see. I have my rent next week t
I don't see how I can manage "
Volker had a clean-shaven, depressed, and earnest
face. He had always been honest and timid.
Kreisler looked sulkily at the tablecloth and knocked
the ash sharply off his cigarette into his cup.
He said nothing. Volker became nervous.
" Will a hundred marks be of any use ? "
" Yes." Kreisler drew his hand over his chin as
though stroking a beard down and then pulled his
moustaches up, fixing the waitress with an indifferent
eye. " Can you spare that ? "
" Well — I can't really. But if you are in such a
position that "
This is how he lost Volker. He felt that hundred
marks, given him as a favour, was the last serious
bite he would get. He only gradually realized of
how much more worth Volker's money now was,
and what before was an unorganized mass of specie,
in which the professional borrower could wallow,
was now a sound and suitably conducted business.
He met that night the new manager.
He was taken round to the Berne after dinner.
He did not realize what awaited him. He found
himself in the head-quarters of many national per-
sonalities. Politeness reigned. Kreisler was pleased
to find a permanent vat of German always on tap.
His roots mixed sluggishly with Ernst's in this living
lump of the soil of the Fatherland dumped down at
the head of the Boulevard Pfeiffer.
The Germans he met here spoke a language and
expressed opinions he could not agree with, but with
which Volker evidently did. They argued genially
oyer glasses of beer and champagne. He found his
ticket at once. He was the vielle barbe of the party.
" Yes, I've seen Gaugins. But why go so far as
the South Sea Islands unless you are going to make
people more beautiful? Why go out of Europe?
Why not save the money for the voyage ? " he
would bluster.
"More beautiful? What do you understand by
79
the word * beautiful,' my dear sir ! " would answer
a voice in the service of new movements.
" What do I call beautiful ? How would you
like your face to be as flat as a pancake, your nostrils
like a squashed strawberry, one of your eyes cocked
up by the side of your ear ? Would not you be
very unhappy to look like that ? Then how can you
expect any one but a technique-maniac to care a
straw for a picture of that sort — call it Cubist or
Fauve or whatever you like ? It's all spoof. It
puts money in somebody's pocket, no doubt."
" It's not a question, unhappily, of how we should
like our faces to be. It is how they are. But I do
not consider the actual position of my eyes to be
any more beautiful than any other position that might
have been chosen for them. The almond eye was
long held in contempt by the hatchet-eye "
Kreisler peered up at him and laughed. " You're
a modest fellow. You're not as ugly as you think !
Nach ! I like to find "
" But you haven't told us, Otto, what you call
beautiful"
" I call this young lady here " — and he turned
gallantly to a blushing cocotte at his side — " beautiful,
very beautiful ! " He kissed her amid gesticulation
and applause.
" That's just what I supposed," his opponent said
with appreciation.
He did not get on well with Soltyk. Louis Soltyk
was a young Eussian, half Polish, who occasionally
sat amongst the Germans at the Berne. Volker saw
more of him than anybody. It was he who had
superseded Kreisler in the position of influence as
regards Volker's purse. Soltyk did not borrow a
hundred marks. His system was far more up to
date. Ernst had experienced an unpleasant shock
in coming into contact with Kreisler's clumsy and
slovenly, small-scale money habits again ! Soltyk
physically bore, distantly and with polish, a resem-
blance to Kreisler. His handsome face and elegance
were very different. Kreisler and he disliked each
80
other for obscure physiological reasons : they had
perhaps scrapped in the dressing-rooms of creation
for some particular fleshly covering, and each secured
only fragments of a coveted garment. In some ways,
then, Soltyk was his efficient and more accomplished
counterpart, although as empty and unsatisfactory
as himself.
" Aber wo istder deutsche Student ? " Soltyk
would ask, referring to him usually like that.
" He's in good company somewhere ! " Volker
revealed Kreisler as a lady's man. This satisfied
Soltyk's antipathy. The Eussian kept an eye on
Volker's pocket while Kreisler was about. He had
not only recognized in him a mysterious and vexing
kinship, with his instinct ; his sharper's sense, also,
noted the signs of the professional borrower, the
most contemptible and slatternly member of the
crook family. In an access of sentiment Ernst asked
his new friend to try and sell a painting of Kreisler's.
Soltyk dealt in paintings and art objects. But
Soltyk took him by the lapel of the coat and in a few
words steadied him into cold sense.
" Won ! Sois pas bete ! Here," he pulled out a
handful of money and chose a dollar -piece. " Here —
give him this. You buy a picture — if it's a picture
you want to buy — of Krashunine's. Kreisler has
nothing but Kreisler to offer. C'est peu ! "
Ernst introduced Kreisler next to another sort of
Paris compatriot. It was a large female contingent
this time. He took him round to Fraulein Lipmann's
on her evening, when these ladies played the piano
and met.
Kreisler felt that he was a victim of strategy. He
puffed and swore outside, complained of their music,
the coffee, their way of dressing.
The Lipmann circle could have stood as a model
for Tarr's Bourgeois -Bohemians, stood for a group.
For chief characteristic this particular Bourgeois-
Bohemian set had the inseparability of its members.
Should a man, joining them, wish to flirt with one
81 F
particularly, he must flirt with all — flatter all, take
all to the theatre, carry the umbrellas and paint-boxes
of all. Eventually, should he come to that, it is
doubtful if a proposition of marriage could be made
otherwise than before the assembled band ! And
marriage alone could wrench the woman chosen
away from the clinging bunch.
Kreisler, despite his snorting, went again with
Volker. The female charm had done its work. This
gregarious female personality had shown such frank
invitation to Volker that had any separate woman ex-
hibited half as hospitable a front he would have been
very alarmed. As it was, it had at first just fulfilled
certain bourgeois requirements of his lonely German
soul. Kreisler came a few weeks running to the
Lipmann soiree. Never finding Volker there, he left
off going as well. He felt he had been tricked and
slighted. The ladies divined what had happened.
Fraulein Lipmann, the leader, put a spiteful little
mark down to each of their names.
CHAPTEE IV
Kreisler pocketed Ernst's hundred marks and
made no further attempt on the formerly hospit-
able income of his friend. Debts began accu-
mulating. Only he found he had grown suddenly
timid with his creditors. The concierge fright-
ened him. He conciliated the gargon at the cafe,
to whom he owed money. He even paid several
debts that it was quite unnecessary to pay, in a
moment of panic and weakness. A straitened week
ensued. At the Berne he had lost his nerve in some
way ; he clowned obsequiously on some evenings,
and, depressed and slack the next, perhaps, resented
his companions' encores.
Next he gradually developed the habit of sitting
alone. More often than not he would come into the
82
cafe and go to a table at the opposite side of the room
to that at which the Germans were sitting.
Eidicule is sighted at twenty yards, the spectator
then, without the sphere of average immediate
magnetism. For once it does not matter, but if
persisted in it inevitably results in humour. Those
who keep to themselves awaken mirth as a cart-
wheel running along the road by itself would. People
feel with the " lonely " man that he is going about
with some eccentric companion— that is himself.
Why did he choose this deaf-and-dumb companion?
What do they find to say ? He is ludicrous as two
men would be who, perpetually in each other's
company, were never seen to exchange a word — who
dined together, went to theatre or caf6, without ever
looking at each other or speaking.
So Kreisler became a lonely figure. It was a strange
feeling. He must be quiet and not attract attention.
He. was marked in some way as though he had com-
mitted a theft. Perhaps it was merely the worry of
perpetual " tick " beginning to tell. For the moment
he would just put himself aside and see what hap-
pened. He was afraid of himself too. Always up
till then immersed in that self, now for the first time
he stood partly outside it. This slight divorce made
him less sure in his actions. A little less careful of
his appearance, he went sluggishly about, smoking,
reading the paper a great deal, working at the art
school fairly often, playing billiards with an Austrian
cook whose acquaintance he had made in a cafe and
who disappeared owing him seven francs.
Volker had been a compendious phenomenon in
his life, although his cheery gold had attracted him
to the more complete discovery. He had ousted
women, too, from Kreisler's daily needs. He had
become a superstition for his tall friend.
It was Kreisler's deadness, his absolute lack of
any reason to be confident and yet perfect aplomb,
that mastered his companion. But this acquired
eventually its significance as well, for Kreisler. The
inertia and phlegm, outward sign of depressing
83
everyday Kreisler, had found some one for whom they
were a charm and something to be envied. Kreisler's
imagination woke shortly after Volker's. It was as
though a peasant who had always regarded his life
as the dullest affair, were suddenly inspirited about
himself by realizing some townsman's poetic notion
of him. Kreisler's moody wastefulness and futility
had found a raison d'etre and meaning.
Ernst Volker had remained for three vague years
becalmed on this empty sea, Kreisler basked round
him, never having to lift his waves and clash them
together as formerly he had been forced sometimes
to^do. There had been no appeals to life. Volker
had been the guarantor of his peace. His failure
was the omen of the sinking ship, the disappearance
of the rats !
Then they had never arrived at terms of friendship.
It had been only an epic acquaintanceship, and
Kreisler had taken him about as a parasite that he
pretended not to notice.
There was no question, therefore, of a reproach
at desertion. He merely hopped off on to somebody
else. Kreisler was more exasperated at this than
at the defection of a friend, who could be fixed down,
and from whom at last explanation must come. It
was an unfair advantage taken. A man had no right
to accompanv you in that distant and paradoxical
fashion, get all he could, become ideally useful, unless
it was for life.
He watched Soltyk's success with distant mockery.
Volker's loves were all husks, of illogical completeness.
A man appeared one day in the Berne who had
known Kreisler in Munich. The story of Kreisler s
marrying his fiancee to his father then became known.
Other complications were alleged in which Otto's
paternity played a part. The dot of the bride was
another obscure matter. It was during his aloofness.
He looked the sort of man, the party agreed, who
would splice his sweetheart with his papa or reinforce
his papa's affairs with a dot he did not wish to pay
for at last with his own person. The Berne was
84
also informed that Kreisler had to keep seventeen
children in Munich alone ; that he only had to look
at a woman for her to become pregnant. It was when
the head of the column, the eldest of the seventeen,
emerged into boyhood, requiring instruction, that
Kreisler left for Eome. Since then a small society
had been founded in Bavaria to care for Kreisler's
offsprings throughout Germany. This great capacity
of Otto's was, naturally, not admired ; at the best
it could be considered as a misdirected and disordered
efficiency. The stories pleased, nevertheless. When
he appeared that night his friends turned towards his
historic figure with cries of welcome. But he was
not gregarious. He missed his opportunity. He
took a seat in the passage-way leading to the Bureau
de Tabac. As their laughter struck him through his
paper he was unstrung enough to be annoyed.
He frowned and puckered up his eyes, and two
flushed lines descended from his eyes to his jaw. On
their way out one or two of his compatriots greeted
him :
" Sacred Otto ! Why so unsociable ? "
" Hush ! He has much to think about. You don't
understand what the cares of "
, " Come, old Otto, a drink ! "
He shook them off with mixture of affected anger
and genuine spitting oaths. He avoided their eyes
and spat blasphemously at his beer. He avoided the
caf6 for some days.
Kreisler then recovered.
At first nothing much happened. He had just
gone back again into the midst of his machinery like
a bone slipped into its place, with a soft crick. He
became rather more firm with his creditors. He
changed his rooms (moving then to the Boulevard
Pfeiffer), passed an occasional evening with the
Germans at the Berne, and started a portrait of
Suzanne, who had been sitting at the school.
"How is Herr Volker ? Is he out of Paris?"
Fraulein Lipmann asked him when they met. " Come
round and see us."
85
People's actual or possible proceedings formed in
very hard-and-fast mould in Kreisler's mind, seen
not with realism, but through conventions of his
suspicious irony. This solicitude as to Volker he
contrasted with their probable indifference as regards
his old, shabby, and impolite self.
But he went round, his reception being insipid.
He had shown no signs of animation or interest in
them. Both he and the ladies were rather doubtful
as to why he came at all. No pleasure resulted on
either side from these visits, yet they doggedly
continued. A distinct and steady fall in the tempera-
ture could be observed. He sneered, as though the
aimlessness of his visits were an insult that had at
last been taken up. They would have been for ever
discontinued except for a sudden necessity to reopen
that channel of bourgeois intercourse.
CHAPTER V
On the first day of his letter being overdue, a con-
venient way of counting, Otto rose late, from a maze
of shallow dreams, and was soon dressed, wanting
to get out of his room.
As the clock struck one he slammed his door and
descended the stairs alertly. The concierge, on the
threshold of her " loge," peered up at him.
" Good morning, Madame Leclerc ; it's a fine day,"
said Kreisler, in his heavy French, his cold direct
gaze incongruously ornamented by a cheerful smile.
" Monsieur has got up late this morning," replied
the concierge, with very faint amiability.
" Yes, I have lost all sense of time. J'ai perdu le
temps ! Ha ha ! " He grinned mysteriously. The
watch had gone the way of the dress clothes some days
already.
She followed him slowly along the passage, become
extremely grave. " Quel original ! quel genre ! "
With a look of perplexed distrust she watched him
86
down the street. — This German good humour and
sudden expansiveness has always been a portentous
thing to French people. Latin races are as scandal-
ized at northern amenities, the badness of our hypo-
crisies or manners and total immodesty displayed,
as the average man of Teutonic race is with the
shameful perfection of and ease in deceit shown by the
French neighbour. Kreisler, still beneath the eye
of the concierge, with his rhythmic martial tread,
approached the restaurant. A few steps from the
threshold he slowed down, dragging his long German
boots, which acted as brakes.
The Eestaurant Lejeune, like many others in Paris,
had been originally a clean, tranquil little creamery,
consisting of a small shop a few feet either way. — Then
one customer after another had become more glut-
tonous. He had asked, in addition to his daily glass
of milk, for beefsteak and spinach, or some other
terrific nourishment, which the decent little business
at first supplied with timid protest. But perpetual
scenes of sanguine voracity — weeks of compliance
with the most brutal and unbridled appetites of
man — gradually brought about a change in its cha-
racter. — It became frankly a place where the most
carnivorous palate might be palled. As trade grew,
the small business had burrowed backwards into the
house — the victorious flood of commerce had burst
through walls and partitions, flung down doors,
discovered many dingy rooms in the interior that it
instantly filled with serried cohorts of eaters. It had
driven out terrified families, had hemmed the apo-
plectic concierge in her " loge," it had broken out
on to the court at the back in shed-like structures.
And in the musty bowels of the house it had estab-
lished a broiling, luridly-lighted, roaring den, in-
habited by a rushing and howling band of slatternly
savages. — The chef's wife sat at a desk immediately
fronting the entrance door. When a diner had
finished, adding up the bill himself on a printed slip
of paper, he paid it there on his way out. In the first
room a tunnel-like and ill-lit recess furnished with a
87
long table formed a cul-de-sac to the left. Into
this Kreisler got. At the right-hand side the passage
led to the inner rooms.
A mind feeling the need for things clean and clear cut
would have been better content, although demurring,
with Kreisler' s military morning suit, slashed with thick
seams ; carefully cut hair, short behind,a little florid and
bunched on the top ; his German high-crowned bowler
hat, and plain cane, than the Charivari of the Art-
fashion and uniform of The Brush in those about him,
chiefly students from the neighbouring Art schools.
He was staring at the bill of fare when some one
took the seat in front of him. — He looked up, put
down the card. A young woman was sitting there,
who now seemed waiting, as though Kreisler might
be expected, after a rest, to take up the menu again
and go on reading it.
" Have you done with ? May I % "
At the sound of her voice he moved a little forward,
and in handing it to her, spoke in German.
" Danke schon," she said, smiling with a German
nod of racial recognition.
He ordered his soup. — Usually this meal passed in
surly impassible inspection of his neighbours and the
newspaper. Staring at and through the figure in
front of him, he spent several minutes. He seemed
making up his mind.
" Monsieur est distrait aujourd'hui," Jeanne said,
who was waiting to take his order.
Contrary to custom, he sought for some appetizing
dish, to change the routine. Appetite had not woken,
but he had become restless before the usual dull
programme. There were certain tracts of menu he
never explored. His eye always guided him at once
to the familiar place where the " plat du jour " was
to be found, and the alternative sweets heading the
list. He now plunged his eye down the long line
of unfamiliar dishes.
He fixed his eye on Jeanne with indecision too,
and picked up the menu. " My vis-a-vis is pretty ! "
he thought.
88
11 Lobster salad, mayonnaise, and a pommes &
l'huile, Jeanne," lie called out.
This awakening to beauties of the menu brought
with it a survey of his neighbour. Vaguely, she must
be connected with lobster salad. How could that
be?
First he was surprised that such a beautiful girl
should be sitting there. Beautiful people wander
dangerously about in life, just like ordinary folk. He
appeared to think that they should be isolated like
powder magazines or lepers. This man could never
leave good luck alone, or reflect that that, too, was a
dangerous vagrant. He could not quite grasp that
it was a general good luck and easily explained phe-
nomenon.
He had already been examined by the beautiful
girl. Throwing an absent far-away look into her
eyes, she let them wander over him. Afterwards she
cast them down into her soup. As a pickpocket,
after brisk work in a crowd, hurries home to examine
and evaluate his spoil, so she then examined col-
lectedly what her dreamy eyes had noted. This
method was not characteristic of her, but of the
category of useful habits bequeathed us, each sex
having its own. Perhaps in her cloudy soup she
beheld something of the storm and shock that in-
habited her neighbour.
Without preliminary reflection Kreisler found
himself addressing her, a little abashed when he
suddenly heard his voice, and with eerie feeling when
it was answered.
" From your hesitation in choosing your lunch,
gnadiges Fraulein, I suppose you have not been long
in Paris ? "
" No, I only arrived a week ago, from America."
She settled her elbows on the table for a moment.
14 Allow me to give you some idea of what the menu
of this restaurant is like." This was like a lesson.
He started ponderously. " At the head of each
list you will find simple dishes ; elemental dishes, I
might call them! (Elementalische platter!) This
89
is the rough material from which the others are
evolved. Each list is like an oriental dance. It
gets wilder as it goes along. In the last dish you can
be sure that the potatoes will taste like tomatoes, and
the pork like a sirloin of beef."
" So ! " laughed the young woman, with good
German gutteral. " I'm glad to say I have ordered
dishes that head the list."
" Garlic is an enemy usually ambushed in gigot. —
That is his only quite certain haunt."
" Good ; I will avoid gigot." She was indulgent
to his clowning, and drawled a little in sympathy.
Between language and feeding, Kreisler sought to
gain the young lady's confidence, adhering conven-
tionally to the progress of Creation.
He found his neighbour inclined to slight Nature.
He, too, was a little overlooked ; in waiving of
conventions being blandly forestalled. There was
something uncomfortable about all this. He must
brace himself He realized with the prophetic
logic of his hysteria, racing through the syllogisms his
senses divined, sensations now anachronisms, after-
wards recognized as they burst out in due course.
This precocity in the restaurant took him to the
solution of what their coming together might mean.
One plethoric impression of her was received — al-
though from her — instalment of a senseless generosity.
She wore a heavy black burnous, very voluminous
and severe ; a large ornamental bag was on the chair
at her side, which you expected to contain herbs and
trinkets, paraphernalia of the witch, rather than
powder, lip-cream, and secrets. Her hat was immense
and sinuous ; generally she implied an egotistic code
of advanced order, full of insolent strategies.
Other women in the restaurant appeared dragged
down and drained of vitality by their clothes beside
her, Kreisler thought, although she wore so much
more than they did. Her large square- shouldered
and slim body swam in hers like a duck.
When she laughed, this commotion was transmitted
to her body as though sharp, sonorous blows had been
90
struck on her mouth. Her lips were long, hard
bubbles risen in the blond heavy pool of her face,
ready to break, pitifully and gaily. Growued
distant equivocal figures in streets and gardens.
Each rendered up its little quota of malignant hope,
then presented him with a face of monotonous
strangeness.
It was Saturday when Kreisler was found preparing
to take his valise to the Mont de Pi6te. On the
preceding evening he had paid one of his unaccount-
able calls on Fraulein Lipmann, the first for some
time. He had a good reason for once. This salon
wsts the only place of comparatively public assembly
in the quarter he had not visited. Entering with his
usual slight air of mystification, he bent to kiss
Fraulein Lipmann's hand in a vaguely significant
fashion.
The blank reciprocal indifference of these calls
was thus relieved. It awoke a vague curiosity on
one side, a little playful satisfaction on the other.
This might even have ripened into a sort of under-
standing and bonhomie. He did not pursue it or
develop the role. After a half-hour of musing on
the brink of a stream of conversation and then music,
he suddenly recognized something, flotsam bobbing
past. It had bobbed past before several times. He
gradually became steadily aware of it. A dance at
the Bonnington Club, that would take place the
following evening, was the event that arrested him.
Why was this familiar ? Anastasya ! Anastasya
had spoken of it. That was all he could remember.
Would she be there ? He at once, and as though he
had come there to do so, fished delicately in this same
99
stream of tepid chatter for an invitation to the dance.
Fraulein Lipmann, the fish he particularly angled for,
was backward. They did not seem to want him
very much at the dance. Nevertheless, after an
hour of indefatigable manoeuvring, the exertion of
many powers seldom put forth in that salon, he
secured the form, not the spirit, of an invitation.
Kreisler saw, in his alarmed fancy, Anastasya
becoming welded into this gregarious female per-
sonality. The energy and resource of the Devil
himself would be required to extricate her. She
must be held back from this slough for the moment
he needed.
Was it too late to intercept her ? But he felt he
might do it. The eyes of these ladies, so far dull
with indifference, would open. He would be seen as
a being with a new mysterious function. He felt
that Volker's absence from their reunions was due
to his not wishing to meet him. They, too, must
see that. Now the enigmatical and silent doggedness
of these visits would seem explained. He would
appear like some unwieldy, deliberate parasite got
on to their indivisible body. The invitation given,
he made haste to go. If he stayed much longer
it would be overlaid with all sorts of offensive and
effacing matter, and be hardly fit for use. A defiant
and jeering look on his face, he withdrew with an
" Until to-morrow."
It was at this point that the " smokkin " came
into prominence.
CHAPTEE VII
"Impossible, my poor Kreisler! Five francs. No
more ! "
Suzanne stood at attention before him in the
hall of the Mont de Pi6te. If she had been in-
exorable before, she was now doubly so beneath the
eyes of the veritable officials. The sight of them,
100
and the half -official status of go-between and inter-
preter, urged her to ape -like importance.
With flushed and angry face, raised eyebrows,
shocked at his questioning the verdict, she repeated,
11 Five francs ; it's the most."
" No, that's no good ; give me the portmanteau,"
he said.
She gave it him in silence, eyebrows still raised,
eyes fixed, staring with intelligent disapproval right
in front of her. She did not look at her eminent
countrymen behind the large counter. But her
intelligent and significant stare, lost in space, was
meant to meet and fraternize with probable similar
stares of theirs, lost in the same intelligent void.
Her face fixed in distended, rubicund, discon-
tentedly resigned mask, she walked on beside him,
the turkey -like backward -forward motion of fat neck
marking her ruffled state. Kreisler sat down on a
bench of the Boulevard du Paradis, she beside him.
11 Dis ! couldn't you have borrowed the rest ? "
she said at last.
Kreisler was tired. He got up.
14 No, of course I couldn't. I hate people who
lend money as I hate pawnbrokers."
/ Suzanne listened, with protesting grin. Her head
nodded energetically.
14 Eh bien ! si tout le monde pensait comme
toi !"
He pushed his moustache up and frowned patheti-
cally.
" Ou est Monsieur Volker ? " she asked.
11 Volker ? I don't know. He has no money."
" Comment ! II n'a pas d'argent ? C'est pas vrai !
Tu ne le vois p'us ? "
" Good-bye." Kreisler left Suzanne seated, staring
after him.
The portmanteau dragged along, he strode past a
distant figure. Suzanne saw him turn round and
examine the stranger's face. Then she lost sight of
them round a corner of the boulevard.
11 Quel type ! " she exclaimed to herself, nearly as
101
the concierge had done. She sauntered back home,
giving Kreisler the benefit of several sour reflections.
In a little room situated behind the Eue de la
Gai£te, she pulled open one of two drawers in her
washstand, which contained a little bread, tea,
potatoes, and a piece of cold fish. She spread out
a sheet of the Petit Parisien beside the basin. Having
peeled the potatoes and put them on the gas, she took
off those outdoor things that just enabled her to
impart a turkey -like movement to her person. Then,
dumpy, in a salmon-check petticoat, her legs bowed
backwards and her stomach stuck out, she stood
moodily at the window. A man she knew, now in
the Midi, sent her now and then a few francs.
This rueful spot, struck in image of this elementary
dross of humanity, was Kreisler's occasional haunt.
Cell of the unwieldy, tragic brain of the city, with
million other similar cells, representing overwhelming
uniform force of brooding in that brain, attracted
him like a desert or ocean.
He would listen solemnly, like a great judge, to
Suzanne's perpetual complaints, sitting on the edge
of her bed, hat on head. She was so humble and
so pretentious. Her imagination was arrogant and
constantly complaining. The form her complaints
took was always that of lies — needless, dismal lies.
She could not grumble without inventing and she
never stopped grumbling. This, then, was one of
Kreisler's dwellings. He lived at large. Some of
his rooms, such as this, the Cafe de Berne, and Juan
Soler's School of Art, he shared with others. On
very troubled days his body, like the finger of a
weather-glass, would move erratically. When found
in Suzanne's room it might be taken as an indication
of an unsettled state. A tendency to remain at
home, on the contrary, denoted mostly a state of
equilibrium and peace.
102
CHAPTBE VIII
The portmanteau fell under the bed; he crushed
into the red bulbous cover. Kreisler never sat
on his bed except when going to get into it.
For another man it would have replaced the absent
armchair. In those moments of depression in
which he did so he always, at once, felt more
depressed, or quite hopeless. Head between hands,
he now stared at the floor. Four or five hours !
He must raise money, else he could not go to the
dance. How absurd, this fuss about such a sum !
All the same, how the devil could he get it ?
" Small as it is, I shan't get it," he thought to
himself. He began repeating this stupidly, and stuck
at word " shan't." His brain and mouth clogged up,
he stuttered thickly in his mind. He sprang up.
But the slovenly, hopeless quality of the bed clung
to him. This was a frivolous demonstration. He
wandered to the window ; stood staring out, nose
flattened against the pane.
The sudden quiet and idleness of his personality
was an awakening after the little nightmare of
Suzanne. But it was not a refreshing one.
His portmanteau had always received certain
consideration, as being, next the dress-suit, the most
dependable article among those beneath his sway —
to come to his aid if their common existence were
threatened. He had now thrown it under the bed
with disgust. He and all his goods were rubbish for
the streets.
He sauntered from the window to the bed and
back. Whenever he liked, in a sense, he would open
the door and go out ; but still, until then (and when
would he " like " ?) he was a poor prisoner. Outside,
he took some strength and importance from others.
In here he touched bottom and realized what the
Kreisler-self was, with four walls round it.
His muscles were still full. They symbolized his
uselessness. The thought, so harsh and tyrannical,
103
of his once more going to the window and gazing down
at the street beneath made him draw back his chair.
He sat midway in the room, looking steadily out at
the housetops. But, like his vigorous muscles and
his deadness, there was the same contradiction ;
his mechanical obstinacy as regards Anastasya and
his comic activity at present to get to a dance.
Comrades at painting school, nodding acquaintances,
etc., were once more run through. None valued his
acquaintance at more than thirty centimes, if that.
Perhaps Anastasya had left Paris ? This solution,
occurring sometimes, had only made his activity
during the last few days more mad and mechanical —
the pursuit of a shadow.
Ten minutes later, through a series of difficult clock-
work-like actions, he had got once more to Lejeune's
to have lunch. With disgust he took what had been
his usual seat latterly, at the table in the recess ;
the one place, he was sure, Anastasya would never
be found in again, wherever else she might be found.
Lunch nearly over, he caught sight of Lowndes.
" Hi, Master Lowndes ! " he called out — always
assuming great bluffness and brutality, as he called
it, with English people, and laborious opposite to
" stiffness." " How do you do ? "
The moment his eye had fallen on " Master "
Lowndes this friend's probable national opulence
had occurred to him as a tantalizing fact. No gross
decision could be come to in that moment. Lowndes
was called to be kept there a little bit, while he turned
things over and made up his mind. This was an
acquaintance existing chiefly on chaff and national
antithesis. It meant nothing to him. What matter
if he were refused ? Lowndes not being a com-
patriot made it easier. Something must be sacrificed.
Lowndes 5 acquaintanceship was a possession some-
thing equivalent to a cheap ring, a souvenir. He
must part with it, if necessary.
Lowndes grinned at sight of Kreisler. He had
finished his own lunch and was just going off. He
had almost forgotten his idea in coming to the
104
restaurant, that of seeing his German acquaintance.
Swaying from side to side on Ms two superlatively
elastic calves, lie sat down opposite the good Otto,
who leered back, blinking. He spoke German better
than Kreisler any other language, so they used that,
after a little flourish of English.
" Well, what have you been doing ? Working f "
" No," replied Kreisler. " I'm giving up painting
and becoming a business man. My father has offered
me a position ! "
This subject seemed no more important than his
speech made it, and yet it filled his life. Lowndes
smiled correctly, not suspecting realities.
" Have you seen Douglas ? " This was a friend
through whom they had known each other in Italy.
Why should this fellow lend him thirty francs ?
The grin would not be there, he felt, had he been
conscious that the other was thinking of the contents
of his pocket. Not humour, but a much colder
stuff no doubt mounted guard over his pocket-book,
guarantee of this easiness and health. Oh, the
offensive prosperity of the English, smugness of
middle-class affluence ! etc. etc.
Kreisler imagined the change that would come
ovfcr this face when there was question of thirty
francs. Estrangement set in on his side already,
anger and humiliation at the imagined expression.
This was of help. Here was his chance of borrowing
that very insignificant but illusive sum. The man
was already an enemy. He would willingly have
knocked him on the head and taken his money
had they been in a quiet place.
The complacent health and humoristic phlegm with
which he grinned and perambulated through life
charged Kreisler with the contempt natural to his
more stiff and human education. His relations with
him hinging on mild racial differences, he saw behind
him the long line of all the Englishmen he had ever
known. " Useless swine," he thought, " so pleased
with his cursed English face, and mean as a peasant ! "
" Oh, I was asked for my opinion on a certain
105
matter this morning. I was asked what I thought
of German women ! "
" What reply did you make, Mr. Lowndes ? "
" I didn't know what to say. I suggested that
my friend should come along and get your opinion."
" My opinion as an expert % My fees as an expert
are heavy. I charge thirty francs a consultation ! "
11 I'm sure he'd have paid that," Lowndes laughed
innocently. Kreisler surveyed him unsympatheti-
cally.
" What, then, is your opinion of our excellent
females % " he asked.
" Oh, I have no opinion. I admire your ladies,
especially the pure Prussians."
Kreisler was thinking : " If I borrow the money,
there must be some time mentioned for paying back —
next week, say. He would be more likely to lend
it if he knew where to find me. He must have my
address."
" Come and see me — some time," he blinked.
" 52 Boulevard Pfeiffer, fourth floor, just beside the
restaurant here. You see ? Up there."
" I will. I looked you up at your old address a
month or so ago ; they didn't know where you'd
gone."
Kreisler stared fixedly at him — a way of covering
discomfiture felt at this news. The old address
reminded him of several little debts there. For this
reason he had not told them where he was going.
The concierge would complain of her old tenant ;
probably, even, Lowndes might have been shown
derelict tradesmen's bills. Not much encouragement
for his proposed victim !
Lowndes was writing on a piece of paper.
" There's my address : Eue des Flammes."
Kreisler looked at it rather fussily and said over :
" 5 Eue des Flammes. Lowndes." He hesitated
and repeated the name.
" E. W. — Eobert Wooton. Here, I'll write it down
for you."
" Are you in a hurry ? Come and have a drink
106
at the Berne/' Kreisler suggested when he had made
up his bill.
On the way Lowndes continued a discourse.
" A novelist I knew told me he changed the names
of the characters in a book several times in the course
of writing it. It freshened them up, according to
him. He said that the majority of people were killed
by their names. I think a name is a man's soul."
Kreisler forged ahead, rhythmically and sullenly.
" If we had numbers, for instance, instead of names,
who would take the number thirteen ? " Lowndes
wondered in German.
"I," said Kreisler.
11 Would you % "
Every minute Kreisler delayed increased the diffi-
culty. His energy was giving out. They were now
sitting on the terrasse at the Berne. He had developed
a particular antipathy to borrowing. An immense
personal neurasthenia had grown up round this habit
of his, owing to his late discomfitures. He already
heard an awkward voice, saw awkward eyes. Then
he suddenly concluded that the fact that Lowndes
was not a German made it more difficult, instead of
les$ so, as he had thought. Why could he not take ? —
why petition ? He knew that if Lowndes refused
he would break out ; he nearly did so as it was.
With disgust and fatigue he lay back in his chair,
paying no attention to what Lowndes was saying.
His mind was made up. He would not proceed with
his designs on this dirty pocket. He became rough
and monosyllabic. He wished to purify himself in
rudeness of his preceding amiability.
Lowndes had been looking at a newspaper. He
put it down and said he must go back to " work."
His " morning " had, of course, been interrupted
by Tarr !
Kreisler still saw the expression on the Englishman's
face he had imagined, and restrained with difficulty
the desire to spit in it. The nearness they had been
to this demand must have affected, he thought, even
his impervious companion. He had asked and been
107
refused, to all intents and purposes. He got up,
left Lowndes standing there, and went into the
lavatory at the side of the cafe, where he had a
thorough wash in cold water.
Back at his table, he saw no sign of the Englishman,
and sat down to finish his drink, considering what his
next move should be.
Various pursuits suggested themselves. He might
go and offer himself as model at some big private
studios near the Observatoire. He could get a
week's money advanced him ? He would dress as a
woman and waylay somebody or other on the boule-
vards. He might steal some money. Volker was
the last. He came just after murder. He would go
to Ernst Volker — he with his little obstinate resolve
in obscurity of his mind no longer to be Kreisler's
acquaintance. Obstinacy in people of weak character
is the perfectly exasperating thing. They have no
right to their resoluteness — appearing weaker and
meaner than ever in anomalous tenacity. Volker,
naturally submissive, had broken away and was
posing somewhere as a stranger. He .felt physical
disgust ; this proceeding was indecent.
A spirit that has mingled with another, suddenly
covering itself and wishing to regain its strangeness,
can be as indecent as a strange being suddenly baring
itself. A man's being is never divined so completely
and pungently as when his friendship cools and he
becomes once more a stranger. This is one of the
moments when the imagination, most awake, sees
best.
This little rat's instinctive haste to separate from
him was an ill omen : what did he care for omens ?
he clamoured impatiently.
At this juncture in his reflections, from where he
sat on the caf6 terrace he saw Volker's back, as he
supposed, disappearing round a corner, as though
trying to avoid a meeting. Blood came to his head
with a shock. He nearly sprang forward in pursuit
of this unsociable form. Bushing words of insult
108
rose to his lips, he fidgeted on his seat, gazed blankly
at the spot where he had seen the figure. That it
was no longer there exasperated him beyond measure.
It was as though he considered that Ernst should
have remained at the corner, immobile, with his
back towards him, a visible mark and fuel for anger.
He made a sign to the waiter, indicating that his
drink would go into his " tick." He then hurried
off in the direction of Volker's house — the direction
also that the back had taken — determined to get
something out of him. Kreisler, letting instinct
guide his steps, took the wrong turning — following,
in fact, his customary morning's itinerary. He
found himself suddenly far beyond the street Volker
lived in, near Juan Soler's atelier. He gazed down
the street towards the atelier, then took off his glasses
and began carefully wiping them. While doing this
he heard words of greeting and found Volker at his
elbow.
" Hallo ! You look pretty hot. You nearly knocked
me over a minute ago in your haste," he was saying.
Kreisler jumped — as the bravest might if, having
stoutly confronted an apparition, it suddenly became
a man of flesh and blood. Had his glasses been firmly
planted on his nose things might have gone differently.
He frowned vacantly at Ernst and went on rubbing
them.
Volker saw that something was wrong. It would
have been to his advantage also to " have out "
anything that was there and have done with it.
But in his attitude German sluggishness seemed
appealing to the same element in Kreisler's nature,
claiming its support and sympathy.
11 It's dreadfully hot ! " he said uneasily, looking
round as though examining the heat. He stepped up
on to the pavement out of the way of a horse-meat
cart. The large-panelled conveyance, full of enormous
outlandish red carcases, went rushing down the
street, carrying an area of twenty yards of deafness
with it. This explosion of sound had a pacifying effect
on Kreisler ; it made him smile for some reason or
109
other. Volker went on: "I don't know whether I
told you about my show."
" What show ? " Kreisler asked rudely.
11 In Berlin, you know. It has not gone badly.
Our compatriots improve. I've got a commission
to paint the Countess Wort. What have you been
doing lately ? " There was a forbidding pause. " I've
intended coming round to see you ; but I've been
sticking at home working. Have you been round at
the Berne f " He spoke rapidly and confidentially,
as two business men meeting in the street and always
in a hurry might try and compress into a few minutes,
between two handshakes, a lot of personal news. He
seemed to wish to combine conviction that he was
very anxious to tell Kreisler all about himself and
(by his hurried air) paralysis of the other's intention
to have an explanation.
" I am glad you are going to paint the Countess
Wort. I congratulate you, Mr. Volker ! I am in a
hurry. Good day."
Kreisler turned and walked towards the Atelier
Juan Soler. For no reason (except that it was
impossible) he could not get money from Volker.
It was as though that money would not be real
money at all. Supposing he got it ; the first place
he tried to pass it the man would say, " This is not
money." As for taking him to task, his red, correct ■
face made it impossible ; it had suddenly become a
lesson and exercise that it would be ridiculous to
repeat. He was not a schoolboy.
Volker walked away ruffled. He was mortified
that, by apprehension of a scene, he had been so
friendly. The old Otto had scored. He, Volker, had
humiliated himself needlessly, for it was evident
Kreisler's manner had been misinterpreted by him.
Kreisler had not intended going to Soler's that day.
Yet there he was, presumably got there now to avoid
Ernst Volker. He saw himself starting up from the
Berne a quarter of an hour before, steaming away
in pursuit of a skulking friend — impetus of angry
thought carrying him far beyond his destination ;
110
then Volker comes along and runs him into the
painting school. He compared himself to one of
those little steam toys that go straight ahead without
stopping ; that any one can take up and send puffing
away in the opposite direction. Humouring this
fancy, he entered the studio with the gaze a man
might wear who had fallen through a ceiling and
found himself in a strange room in midst of a family
circle. The irresponsible, resigned, and listless air
signified whimsical expectancy. Some other figure
would rise up, no doubt, and turn him streetwards
again ?
A member of the race which has learnt to sleep
standing up posed on the throne. He had suddenly
come amongst brothers. He was as torpid as she,
as indifferent as these mechanical students. The
clock struck. With a glance at the massier, the
model slowly and rhythmically abandoned her rigid
attitude, coming to life as living statues do in ballets ;
reached stiffly for her chemise. The dozen other
figures, who had been slowly pulsing — advancing or
retreating, suspended around her yellowness — now
laboriously moved, relapsing aimlessly here and there,
chiefly against walls.
He had been considering a fat back and especially
a parting carried half-way down the back of the
head. Why should not its owner, and gardener,
he had reflected, continue it the whole distance down,
dividing his head in half with a line of white scalp ?
This man now turned on him sudden, unsurprised,
placid eyes. Had he eyes, as well as a parting, at the
back of his head ? Kreisler felt on the verge of
courteous discussion as to whether that parting should
or should not be gone on with till it reached the
neck.
Three had struck. He left and returned to the
neighbourhood of the Berne by the same and longest
route, as though to efface in some way his previous
foolish journey.
Every three or four hours vague hope recurred of
the delayed letter, like hunger recurring at the hour
111
of meals. He went up to the loge of his house and
knocked.
" II n'y a rien pour vous ! "
Four hours remained. The German party was to
meet at Fraulein Lipmann's after dinner.
CHAPTEE IX
Otto's compatriots at the Berne were sober and
thoughtful, with discipline in their idleness. Their
monthly moneys flowed and ebbed, it was to be
supposed, small regular tides frothing monotonously
in form of beer. This rather desolate place of
chatter, papers, and airy, speculative business had
the charm of absence of gusto.
Kreisler was ingrainedly antiquated, purer German.
He had experienced suddenly home-sickness, that
often overtakes voluntary exiles at the turn of their
life — Ms being, not for Germany, exactly, but for the
romantic, stiff ideals of the German student of his
generation. It was a home-sickness for his early self.
Like knack of riding a bicycle or anything learnt in
youth, this character was easily assumed. He was
gradually discovering the foundations of his per-
sonality. Many previous moods and phases of his*
nature were mounting to the surface.
Arrived in front of the Cafe Berne, he stood for
fifteen minutes looking up and down the street, at
the pavement, his watch, the passers-by. Then he
chose the billiard-room door to avoid thejprincipal
one, where he usually entered.
All the ugly familiarity of this place, he hated with
methodic, deliberate hatred; taking things one by
one, as it were, persons and objects. 'The gargon's
spasmodic running about was like a gnat's energy
over stagnation.
Passing from the billiard-room to a gangway with
several tables, his dull, exasperated eye fell on some-
thing it did not understand. How could it be expected
112
to understand ? It was an eye and it stuck. It
was simple, though. It was amazed and did not
understand.
Anastasya.
Set in the heart of this ennui, it arrested the mind
like a brick wall some carter drowsed on his wagon.
Stopping dead, Kreisler stared stupidly. Anastasya
was sitting there with Soltyk. With Soltyk ! He
seemed about to speak to them — they, at least, were
under this impression. Quite naturally he was about
to do this, like a child. As though in intense abstrac-
tion, he fixed his eyes on them. Then he took a
step towards them, possibly with the idea of sitting
down beside them. Consciousness set in, with a tropic
tide of rage, and carried him at a brisk pace towards
the door, corresponding to the billiard-room door, on
the other side of the cafe. Yet in the midst of this
he instinctively raised his hat a little, his eyes fixed
now on his feet.
He was in a great hurry to get past the two people
sitting there. This could not be done without dis-
covering two inches of the scalp for a moment — as
an impatient man in a crush, wishing to pass, pushes
another aside, raising his hat at the same time to
have the right to be rude.
Same table on terrasse as an hour before. But
Kreisler seemed sitting on air, or one of those wooden
whirling platforms in the fetes.
The gargorij with a femininely pink, virile face
which, in a spirit of fun, he kept constantly wooden
and solemn except when, having taken your order,
he winked or smiled— came up hastily.
" Was wiinschen Sie ? " he asked, wiping the table
with a serviette. He had learned a few words of
German from the customers. Supposing Kreisler
rather a touchy man, he always attempted to put
him at his ease, as the running of bills was valuable
to him. He had confidence in this client, and wished
the bill to assume vague and profitable proportions.
Kreisler's thoughts dashed and stunned themselves
against this waiter. His mind stood stock-still for
113 H
several minutes. This pink wooden face paralysed
everything. As its owner thought " the young man "
was having a joke with him, it became stUl more
humorously wooden. The more wooden it became,
the more paralysed became Kreisler's intelligence.
He stared at him more and more oddly, till the gargon
was forced to laugh. As a matter of fact, Kreisler
mentally was steadying himself on this hard per-
sonality. As he had appeared to walk deliberately
with hot intention to his seat, so he seemed gazing
deliberately at the waiter and choosing his drink.
Then the dam gave way. He hated this familiar
face ; his thought smashed and buffeted it. Such
commercial modicum of astute good nature was too
much. It was kindness that only equilibrium could
ignore. The expression of his own face became
distorted. The gargon fixed him with his eye and
took a step back, with dog-like doubt, behind the
next table.
Anastasya had smiled in a very encouraging way
as he passed. This had offended him extremely.
Soltyk — Anastasya ; Soltyk — Anastasya. That was
a bad coupling ! His sort of persecution mania seized
him by the throat. This had done it ! Soltyk, who
had got hold of Volker and was the something that
had interfered between that borrowable quantity and
himself, occupied a position not unsimilar to his
stepmother. Volker and his father, who had kept
him suspended in idleness, and who now both were
withdrawing or had withdrawn like diminishing jets
of water, did not attract the full force of his indolent,
tragic grumpiness.
Behind Ernst and his parent Soltyk and his step-
mother stood.
A certain lonely and comic ego all people carry about
with them, who is always dumb except when they
get drunk or become demented. It then talks, never
sincerely, but in a sort of representative, pungent
way. This ego in Kreisler's case would not have
been shameless and cynical if it had begun to grumble
about Volker. It would have said, " Hang that little
114
Ernst ! I come to Paris, I am ashamed to say,
partly for him. But the little swine-dog has given
me the go-by. Hell take his impudence ! I don't
like that swine-dog Soltyk ! He's a slimy Eussian
rascal ! " It would not have said : " I've lost the
access to Ernst's pocket. The pig-dog Soltyk is
sitting there ! "
In any case his vanity too was hurt.
Anastasya now provided him with an acceptable
platform from which his vexation might spring at
Soltyk. There was no money or insignificant male
liaison to stuff him down into grumpiness. " Das
Weib " was there. All was in order for unbounded
inflammation.
He wanted to bury his fear in her hot hair ; he
wanted to kiss her lips as he had never kissed any
woman's ; all the things he wanted — ! But what
would Soltyk be doing about it ? He had met her
alone, and that was all right and not impossible
with a world made by their solitary meeting in the
restaurant. He had lived with her instinctively in
this solitary world of he and she. It was quite
changed at present. Soltyk had got into it. Soltyk,
by implication, brought a host of others, even if he
did not mean that he was a definite rival there himself.
What was he saying to her now % Sneers and ridi-
cule, oceans of sneers directed at himself, more than
ten thousand men could have discharged, he felt,
certainly were inundating her ear. His stepmother-
fiancee, other tales, were being retailed. Everything
that would conceivably prejudice Anastasya, or
would not, he accepted as already retailed. There he
sat, like a coward. He was furious at their distant
insulting equanimity.
A breath of violent excitement struck him, coming
from within. He stirred dully beneath it. She was
there ; he had only put a thin partition between
them. His heart beat slowly and ponderously. " On
hearing what the swine Soltyk has to say she will
remember my conduct in the restaurant and my
appearance. She will make it all fit in. And, by
115
God, it does fit in ! Himmel ! Himmel ! there's
nothing to be done ! Anything I did, every move-
ment, would only be filling out the figure my ass-
tricks have cut for her ! "
He was as conscious of the interior, which he could
not see from his place on the street, as though, passing
through, he had just found the walls, tables, chairs,
painted bright scarlet. He felt he had left a wake of
seething agitation in his passage of the cafe. Passing
the two people inside there had been the affair of a
moment, not yet grasped. This experience, appar-
ently of the past, was still going on. The sense's
picture, even, was not yet complete. New facts,
details, were added every moment. He was still
passing Anastasya and Soltyk. He sat on, trembling,
at the door. There were other exits. She might
be gone. But he forgot about them.
How he had worried himself about the pawned
suit. Fate had directed him there to the cafe to save
him the trouble of further racking his brains about
it. Should he leave Paris? But he was mutinous.
The occurrence of this idea filled him with suspicions.
The fit was over ; reaction had set in. He was
eyeing himself obliquely in the looking-glass behind
his head.
He almost jumped away at two voices beside him,
and the thrilling sound of a dress ; it was as though
some one had spoken with his own voice. It seemed
all round him, attacking him. The thin, ordinary
brushing of a skirt was like the low breathing of a
hidden animal to a man in the forest. He felt they
were coming to speak to him — just as they had
thought that he was. The nerves on that side of
his head twitched as though shrinking from a touch.
They were crossing the terrasse to the street. His
heart beat a slow march. Her image there had
become used. The reality, in its lightning correction
of this, dug into his mind. There once more the real
figure had its separate and foreign life. He was
disagreeably struck by a certain air of depression and
cheerlessness in the two figures before him. This
116
one thing that should have been pleasant, displeased
him. He was angry as though she had been shamming
melancholy.
They were not talking, the best proof of familiarity.
A strange figure occurred to him ; he felt like a man,
with all organs, bones, tissues complete, but made
of cheap perishable stuff, who could only live for a
day and then die of use.
This image, reality now before him, had drawn out
all his energy, like a distinct being nourished by him.
The image, intact in his mind, had returned him more
or less the vigour spent. Her listlessness seemed a
complement of the weakness he now felt. Energy
was ebbing away from both.
He stared with bloodshot eyes. Then he got up
and began walking after her. Soltyk, on hearing
steps, turned round ; but he made no remark to
Anastasya. They crossed the street and got into a
passing tram. Otto Kreisler went back to the caf&
It was like returning to some hall where there had
been a banquet to find empty chairs, empty bottles,
and disorder. The vacant seats around seemed to
have been lately vacated. Then there was the sensa-
tion of being left behind. The Cafe Berne was a
solitary and antediluvian place. Everything began
to thrust itself upon him — the people, street, insigni-
ficant incidents — as though this indifferent life of
facts, in the vanishing of the life of the imagination,
had now become important, being the only thing left.
Common life seemed rushing in and claiming him,
and emphasizing his defeat and the new condition
thus inaugurated. He went to Lejeune's for dinner.
During the whole day he had been in feverish hurry,
constantly seeing time narrowing in upon him. Now
he had a sensation of intolerable leisure.
The useless ennui of his life presented itself to
him for the thousandth time, but now clearly. This
fact seemed to have been waiting with irritating calm,
as though to say, " As soon as you can give me your
attention ? — Well, what are you going to do with
me!" For he had compromised himself irretrievably.
117
He knew that sooner or later he must marry and
settle down with this stony fact, multiply its image.
Tilings had gone too far.
And how about his father ? What was that letter
going to contain ? His father had got a certain
amount of pleasure out of him. Otto had satisfied
in him in turn the desire of possession (that objects
such as your watch, your house, which could equally
well belong to anybody, do not satisfy), of authority
(that servants do not satisfy), of self-complacency (that
self does not) : had been to him, later, a kind of
living cinematograph and travel -book combined ;
and, finally, had inadvertently lured with his youth a
handsome young woman into the paternal net. But
he knew that he could procure no further satisfaction
to this satiated parent. He could be henceforth a
source only of irritation and expense.
After dinner he walked along the boulevard. The
dark made him adventurous. He peered into caf^s
as he passed. He noticed it was already eight.
Supposing he should meet some of the women on the
way to Fraulein Lipmann's ? He made a movement
as though to turn down a side-street and hide himself
at thought of possible confrontation. Next moment
he was walking on obstinately in the direction of the
Lipmann's house. His weakness drew him on, back
into the vortex. Anything, death, and annihilation,
was better than going back into that terrible colourless
mood. His room, the cafe, waited for him like
executioners. He had escaped from it for a time.
Late agitations had given him temporary freedom,
to which he was now committed. Dressed as he was,
extremely untidy, he would go to Fraulein Lipmann's
flat. Only humiliation he knew awaited him in that
direction. If Anastasya were there (he would have
it that she would be found wherever he least would
care to see her) then anything might happen. But
he wanted to suffer still more by her ; physically, as
it were, under her eyes. That would be a relief from
present suffering. He must look in her eyes ; he
must excite in her the maximum of contempt and
118
dislike. He wanted to be in her presence again, with
full consciousness that his mechanical idyll was barred
by Fate. Not strong enough to leave things as they
were, he could not go away with this incomplete
and, physically, uncertain picture behind him. It was
as though a man had lost a prize and wanted written
and stamped statement that he had lost it. He
wished to shame her. If he did not directly insult
her, he would at least insult her by thrusting himself
on her. Then, at height of her disgust, he would
pretend again to make advances.
As to the rest of the party, a sour glee possessed
him at thought of their state by the time he had done
with them. He already saw their faces in fancy
when he should ring their bell and present himself,
old morning suit, collar none too clean, dusty boots.
All this self-humiliation and suffering he was preparing
for.himself was wedded with the thought of retaliation.
Kreisler's schooldays could have supplied him with
a parallel if he could have thought just then. He
saw a curious scene proceeding beneath a desk in
class. The boy next to him had jabbed his neighbour
in the hand with a penknife. The latter, pale with
fury, held his hand out in sinister invitation, hissing,
"■Do it again ! do it again ! " The boy next to
Kreisler complied. " Do it again ! " came still fiercer.
He seemed to want to see his hand a mass of wounds
and delect himself with the awful feeling of his own
rage. Kreisler did not know how he should wipe
out this debt with the world, but he wanted it bigger,
more crushing. The bitter fascination of suffering
drew him on to substitute real wounds for imaginary.
Near Fraulein Lipmann's house he rubbed his
shoulder against a piece of whitewashed wall with
a grin. He went rapidly up the stairs leading to
her flat on the entresol, considering a scheme for the
commencement of the evening. This seemed so
happy that he felt further resourcefulness in mis-
conduct would not be wanting.
119
PART III.
BOUEGEOIS-BOHEMIANS
CHAPTEE I
Kriesler pressed the bell. It was a hoarse low
z-like blast, braying softly into the crowded room.
Kreisler still stood safely outside the door.
There was a rush in the passage : the hissing and
spitting sounds inseparable from the speaking of the
German tongue. Some one was spitting louder than
the rest, and squealing dully as well. They were
females disputing among themselves the indignity
of door-openers. The most anxious to please gained
the day.
The door was pulled ajar ; an arch voice said :
" Wer ist das ? "
" Ich bin's, Fraulein Lunken."
The roguish and vivacious voice died away, how-
ever. The opening of the door showed in the dark
vestibule Bertha Lunken with her rather precious
movements and German robustness.
His disordered hair, dusty boots and white patch
on the jacket had taken effect.
" Who is it ? " a voice cried from within.
" It's Herr Kreisler," Bertha answered with
dramatic quietness. " Come in Herr Kreisler ; there
are still one or two to come." She spoke in a business-
like way, and bustled to close the door, to efface
120
politely her sceptical reception of him by her hand-
some, wondering eyes.
" Ah, Herr Kreisler ! I wonder where Fraulein
Vasek is ? " he heard some one saying.
He looked for a place to hang his hat. Fraulein
Lunken preceded him into the room. Her expression
was that of an embarrassed domestic foreseeing
horror in his master's eye. Otto appeared in his
turn. The chatter seemed to him to swerve a little
bit at his right. Bowing to two or three people he
knew near the door, he went over to Fraulein Lip-
mann, and bending respectfully down, kissed her
hand. Then with a naive air, but conciliatory,
began :
" A thousand pardons, Fraulein Lipmann, for
presenting myself like this. Volker and I have
been at Fontenay-aux-Boses all the afternoon. We
made a mistake about the time of the trains and I
have only just got back ; I hadn't time to change.
I suppose it doesn't matter ? It will be quite
intime and bohemian, won't it ? Volker had
something to do. He's coming on to the dance later
if he can manage it."
This cunning, partly affected, with a genuinely
infantile glee, served him throughout the evening.
While waiting at the door he had hit on this ridiculous
fib. Knowing how welcome Volker was and almost
sure of his not turning up, he would use him to cover
the patch from the whitewashed wall. But he would
get other patches and find other lies to cover them
up till he could hardly move about for this plastering
of small falsehoods.
Fraulein Lipmann had been looking at him with
indecision.
"I am glad Herr Volker's coming. I haven't
seen him for some weeks. You've plenty of time to
change, you know, if you like. Herr Ekhart and
several others haven't turned up yet. You live
quite near, don't you, Herr Kreisler ? "
' Yes, third to the right and second to the left,
and keep straight on ! But I don't think I'll trouble
121
about it. I will do like this. I think I'll do, don't
you, Fraulein Lipmann ? " He took a couple of
steps and looked at himself complacently in a
glass.
" You are the best judge of that."
" Yes, that is so, isn't it, Fraulein ? I have often
thought that. How curious the same notion should
come to you ! " Again Kreisler smiled, and affecting
to consider the question as settled turned to a man
standing near him, with whom he had worked at
Juan Soler's. His hostess moved away, in doubt
as to whether he intended to go and change or not.
He was, perhaps, just talking to his friend a moment
before going.
The company was not " mondain " but " interest-
ing." It was rather on its mettle on this occasion,
both men and women in their several ways, dressed.
An Englishwoman who was friendly with Fraulein
Lipmann was one of the organizers of the Bonnington
Club. Through her they had been invited there.
Five minutes later Kreisler found Fraulein Lipmann
in his neighbourhood again.
This lady had a pale fawn-coloured face, looking
like the protagonist of a crime passionel. She multi-
plied her social responsibilities at every turn. But
her manner implied that the quite ordinary burdens
of life were beyond her strength. The two rooms
with folding doors, which formed her salon and
where her guests were now gathered, had not been
furnished at haphazard. The " Concert " of Gior-
gione did not hang there for nothing. The books
lying about had been flung down by a careful hand.
Fraulein Lipmann required a certain sort of admira-
tion. But she had a great contempt for other people,
and so drew up, as it were, a list of her attributes,
carefully and distinctly underlining each. With
each new friend she went over again the elementary
points, as a schoolmistress would go over with each
new pupil the first steps of grammar or geography,
position of his locker, where the rulers were put,
etc. She took up her characteristic attitudes,
122
one after the other, as a model might ; that is,
those simplest and easiest to grasp.
Her room, dress and manner were a sort of chart
to the way to admire Fraulein Lipmann ; the different
points in her soul one was to gush about, the different
hints one was to let fall about her " rather " tragic
life-story, the particular way one was to regard her
playing of the piano. You felt that there was not a
candlestick, or antimacassar in the room but had
its lesson for you. To have two or three dozen people,
her " friends," repeating things after her in this way
did not give her very much satisfaction. But she
had a great many of the characteristics of the " school-
marm," and she continued uninterruptedly with her
duties teaching " Lipmann " with the solemnity,
resignation and half-weariness, with occasional bursts
of anger, that a woman would teach " twice two are
four, twice three are six." Her best friends were
her best pupils, of course.
The rooms were furnished with somewhat the
severity of the schoolroom, a large black piano — for
demonstrations — corresponded more or less to the
blackboard.
" Herr Schnitzler just tells me that dress is de
rigueur. Miss Bennett says it doesn't matter ; but
it would be awkward if you couldn't get in." She
was continuing their late conversation. " You see
it's not so much an artists' club as a place where the
English Societe permanente in Paris meet."
" Yes, I see ; of course, that makes a difference !
But I asked, I happened to ask, an English friend of
mine to-day — a founder of the club, Master Lowndes "
(this was a libel on Lowndes), " he told me it didn't
matter a bit. You take my word for it, Fraulein
Lipmann, it won't matter a bit," he reiterated a
little boisterously, nodding his head sharply, his
eyelids flapping like metal shutters rather than
winking. Then, in a maundering tone, yawning a
little and rubbing his glasses as though they had now
idled off into gossip and confidences :
" I'd go and dress only I left my keys at Soler's. I
123
shall have to sleep out to-night, I shan't be able to
get my keys till the morning." Suddenly in a new
tone, the equivalent of a vulgar wink :
" Ah, this life, Fraulein ! It's accidents often
separate one from one's ' smokkin ' for days ; some-
times weeks. My ' smokkin ' leads a very independent
life. Sometimes it's with me, sometimes not. It was
a very expensive suit. That has been its downfall."
" Do you mean you haven't got &frac ? "
" Wo, not that. You misunderstand me." He
reflected a moment.
" Ah, before I forget, Fraulein Lipmann ! If you
still want to know about that little matter : I wrote
to my mother the other day. In her reply she tells
me that Professor Heymann is still at Karlsruhe.
He will probably take a class in the country this
summer as usual. The remainder of the party ! "
he added as the bell again rang.
He could not be brutally prevented from accom-
panying them to the dance. But with his remark
about Volker he felt as safe as if he had a ticket or
passe-partout in his pocket.
Kreisler was standing alone nearly in the middle
of the room, his arms folded and staring at the door.
He would use this fictitious authority and licence
to its utmost limit. Some of the others were con-
scious of something unusual in his presence besides
his dress and the disorder even of that. They
supposed he had been drinking.
There were rustlings and laughter in the hall for
some minutes. Social facts, abstracted in this
manner, appealed to the mind with the strangeness
of masks, each sense, isolated, being like a mask on
another. Anastasya appeared. She came out of
that social flutter astonishingly inapposite, like a
mask come to life. The little fanfare of welcome
continued. She was much more outrageous than
Kreisler could ever hope to be : bespangled and
accoutred like a princess of the household of Peter
the Great jangling and rumbling like a savage
showman through abashed capitals.
124
Her amusement often had been to disinter in
herself the dust and decorations of some ancestress.
She would float down the windings of her Great
Eussian and Little Eussian blood, living in some
imagined figure for a time as you might in towns on a
stream.
" We are new lives for our ancestors, not theirs
a playground for us. We are the people who have
the Eeality." Tarr lectured her later, to which she
replied :
" But they had such prodigious lives ! I don't
like being anything out and out, life is so varied. I
like wearing a dress with which I can enter into any
milieu or circumstances. That is the only real self
worth the name."
Anastasya regarded her woman's beauty as a
bright dress of a harlot ; she was only beautiful for
that. Her splendid and bedizened state was assumed
with shades of humility. Even her tenderness and
peculiar heart appeared beneath the common infection
and almost disgrace of that state.
The Bonnington Club was not far off and they had
decided to walk, as the night was fine. It was about
h&lf-past nine when they started. Seven or eight
led the way in a suddenly made self-centred group ;
once outside in the spaciousness of the night streets
the party seemed to break up into sections held
together in the small lighted rooms within — Soltyk
and his friend, still talking, and a quieter group,
followed.
Fraulein Lunken had stayed behind with another
girl, to put out the lights. Instead of running on
with her companion to join the principal group, she
stopped with Kreisler, whom she had found bringing
up the rear alone.
" Not feeling gregarious to-night % " she asked.
Kreisler waited slowly, increasing, at ever step, the
distance between them and the next group, as though
hoping that, should he draw her far enough back in
the rear, like an elastic band she would in panic shoot
125
forward. " Did lie know many English people ? "
and she continued in a long eulogy of that race.
Kreisler murmured and muttered sceptically. And
she seemed then to be saying something about
Soler's, and eventually to be recommending him a
new Spanish professor of some sort.
Kreisler cursed this chatterer and her complaisance
in accompanying him.
" I must get some cigarettes," he said briskly, as a
bureau de tabac came in sight. " But don't you
wait, Fraulein. Catch the others up."
Having purposely loitered over his purchase, when
he came out on the Boulevard again there she was
waiting for him. " Aber ! aber ! what's the matter
with her ? " Kreisler asked himself in impatient
astonishment.
What was the matter with Bertha ? Many things,
of course. Among old general things was a state
hardly of harmony with the Lipmann circle. She was
rather suspect for her too obvious handsomeness. It
was felt that she was perhaps a little too interested in
the world. She was not quite obedient enough in spirit
to the Lipmann. Even nuances of disrespect had
been observed. Then Tarr had turned up nearly
at the commencement of her incorporation. This
was an eternal thorn in their sides, and chronic source
of difficulty. Tarr was uncompromisingly absent
from all their gatherings, and bowed to them, when
met in the street, as it seemed to them, narquoise-
ment, derisively, even. He had been excom-
municated long ago, most loudly by Fraulein Van
Bencke.
" Homme sensuel ! " she had called him. She
averred she had caught his eye resting too intently
on her well-filled-out bosom.
" Homme 6goiste ! " (this referred to his treatment
of Bertha, supposed and otherwise).
Tarr considered that these ladies were partly in-
duced to continue their friendship for Bertha in a
hope of disgusting her of her fianc6, or doing as much
harm to both as possible.
126
Bertha alternately went to them a little for
sympathy, and defied them with a display of his
opinions.
Kreisler had lately been spoken about uncharitably
among them. By inevitable analogy he had, in her
mind, been pushed into the same boat with Tarr.
She always felt herself a little without the circle.
So, Bertha, still in this unusual way clinging to
him (although she had ceased plying him with con-
yersation) they proceeded along the solitary back-
water of Boulevard in which they were. Pipes lay
all along the edge of excavations to their left, large
flaccid surface-machinery of the City. They tramped
on under the small uniform trees Paris is planted with,
a tame and insipid obsession.
Kreisler ignored his surroundings. He was trans-
porting himself, self -guarded Siberian exile, from one
cheerless place to another. To Bertha Nature still
had the usual florid note. The immediate impression
caused by the moonlight was implicated with a
thousand former impressions : she did not dis-
criminate. It was the moon illumination of several
love affairs. Kreisler, more restless, renovated his
susceptibility every three years or so. The moon-
light for him was hardly nine months old, and belonged
to Paris, where there was no romance. For Bertha
the darkened trees rustled with the delicious and
tragic suggestions of the passing of time and lapse of
life. The black unlighted windows of the tall houses
held within, for her, breathless and passionate forms,
engulfed in intense eternities of darkness and whispers.
Or a lighted one, in its contrast to the bland light of
the moon, so near, suggested something infinitely
distant. There was something fatal in the rapid
never-stopping succession of their footsteps — loud,
deliberate, continual noise.
Her strange companion's dreamy roughness, this
romantic enigma of the evening, suddenly captured
her fancy. The machine and indiscriminate side of
her awoke.
She took his hand — rapid, soft and humble, she
127
struck the deep German chord, vibrating rudiment-
arily in the midst of his cynicism.
" You are suffering ! I know you are suffering.
I wish I could do something for you* Cannot If"
Kreisler began tickling the palm of her hand
slightly. When he saw it interrupted her words, he
stopped, holding her hand solemnly as though it had
been a fish slipped there for some unknown reason.
Having her hand — her often-trenchant hand with its
favourite gesture of sentimental over-emphasis —
captive, made her discourse almost quiet.
" I know you have been wronged and wounded.
Treat me as a sister : let me help you. You think
my behaviour odd : do you think I'm a funny girl ?
But, ah ! we walk about and torment each other
enough ! I knew you were not drunk, but were half-
cracked with something — Perhaps you had better
not come on to this place ■"
He quickened his steps, and still gazing stolidly
ahead, drew her by the hand.
" I only should like you to feel I am your friend,"
she said.
" Eight ! " with promptness came through his
practical moustache.
" You're afraid I — " she looked at the ground, he
ahead.
" No," he said, " but you shall know my secret !
Why should not I avail myself of your sympathy ?
You must know that my frac — useful to waiters,
that is why I get so much for the poor suit — this
frac is at present not in my lodgings. No. That
seems puzzling to you ? Have you ever noticed an
imposing edifice in the Eue de Eennes, with a foot-
soldier perpetually on guard f Well, he mounts
guard, night and day, over my suit ! " Kreisler
pulled his moustache with his free hand — " Why
keep you in suspense? My frac is not on my
back because — it is in pawn ! Now, Fraulein, that
you are acquainted with the cause of my slight,
rather wistful, meditative appearance, you will be
able to sympathize adequately with me!"
128
She was crying a little, engrossed directly, now, in
herself.
He thought he should console her.
" Those are the first tears ever shed over my
frac. But do not distress yourself, Fraulein
Lunken. The gargons have not yet got it ! "
Kreisler did not distinguish Bertha much from the
others. At the beginning he was distrustful in a
mechanical way at her advances. If not " put up "
to doing this, she at least hailed from a quarter that
was conspicuous for Teutonic solidarity. Now he
accepted her present genuineness, but ill-temperedly
substituted complete boredom for mistrust, and at
the same time would use this little episode to embellish
his programme.
He had not been able to shake her off : it was
astonishing how she had stuck : and here she still
was ; he was not even sure yet that he had the best
of it. His animosity for her friends vented itself on
her. He would anyhow give her what she deserved
for her disagreeable persistence. He shook her hand
again. Then suddenly he stopped, put his arm
round her waist, and drew her forcibly against him.
She succumbed to the instinct to " give up," and
even sententiously " destroy." She remembered her
resolve — a double one of sacrifice — and pressed her
lips, shaking and wettened, to his. This was not the
way she had wished : but, God ! what did it matter ?
It mattered so little, anything, and above all she !
This was what she had wanted to do, and now she
had done it !
The " resolve " was a simple one. In hazy,
emotional way, she had been making up her mind to it
ever since Tarr had left that afternoon. He wished
to be released, did not want her, was irked, not so
much by their formal engagement as by his liking
for her (this kept him, she thought she discerned).
A stone hung round his neck, he fretted the whole
time, and it would always be so. Good. This she
understood. Then she would release him. But
since it was not merely a question of words, of saying
129 I
" we are no longer engaged " (she had already been
very free with them), but of acts and facts, she must
bring these substantialities about. By putting her-
self in the most definite sense out of his reach and
life — far more than if she should leave Paris, their
continuance of relations must be made impossible.
Somebody else — and a somebody else who was at
the same time nobody, and who would evaporate
and leave no trace the moment he had served her
purpose — must be found. She must be able to stare
pityingly and resignedly, but silently, if he were
mentioned. Kreisler exactly filled this ticket. And
he arose not too unnaturally.
This idea had been germinating while Tarr was
still with her that morning.
So, a prodigality and profusion of self-sacrifice
being offered her in the person of Kreisler, she behaved
as she did.
This clear and satisfactory action displayed her
Prussian limitation ; also her pleasure with herself,
that done. Should Tarr wish it undone, it could
easily be so. The smudge on Kreisler's back was a
guarantee, and did the trick in more ways than he had
counted on. But in any case his whole personality
was a perfect alibi for the heart, to her thinking.
At the back of her head there may have been some-
thing in the form of a last attempt here. With the
salt of jealousy, and a really big row, could Tarr
perhaps be landed and secured even now ?
In a moment, the point so gained, she pushed
Kreisler more or less gently away. It was like a stage-
kiss. The needs of their respective roles had been
satisfied. He kept his hands on her biceps. She
was accomplishing a soft withdrawal. They had
stopped at a spot where the Boulevard approached
a more populous and lighted avenue. As they now
stood a distinct, yet strangely pausing, female voice
struck their ears.
" Fraulein Lunken ! "
Some twenty yards away stood several of her
companions, who, with fussy German sociableness,
130
had returned to carry her forward with them, as they
were approaching the Bonnington Club. Finding
her not with them, and remembering she had lagged
behind, with some wonderment they had walked
back to the head of the Boulevard. They now saw
quite plainly what was before them, but were in that
state in which a person does not believe his eyes,
and lets them bulge until they nearly drop out, to
correct their scandalous vision. Kreisler and Bertha
were some distance from the nearest lamp and in the
shade of the trees. But each of the spectators would
have sworn to the identity and attitude of their
two persons.
Bertha nearly jumped out of her skin, broke away
from Kreisler, and staggered several steps. He,
with great presence of mind, caught her again, and
induced her to lean against a tree, saying curtly :
" You're not quite well, Fraulein. Lean — so. Your
friends will be here in a moment."
Bertha accepted his way out. She turned, indeed,
rather white and sick, and even succeeded so far
as to half believe her lie, while the women came up.
Kreisler called out to the petrified and quite silent
group at the end of the avenue. Soon they were
surrounded by big-eyed faces. Hypocritical concern
soon superseded the masks of scandal.
" She was taken suddenly ill." Kreisler coughed
conventionally as he said this, and flicked his
trousers as though he had been scuffling on the
grpund.
Indignant glances were cast at him. Whatever
attitude they might take up towards their erring
friend, there was no doubt as to their feeling towards
Mm. He was to blame from whichever way you
looked at it. They eventually, with one or two
curious German glances into her eyes, slow, dubious,
incredulous questions, with a drawing back of the
head and dying away of voice, determined temporarily
to accept her explanation. To one of them, very
conversant with her relations with Tarr, vistas of
possible ruptures and commotions opened. Here
131
was a funny affair ! With Kreisler, of all people —
Tarr was bad enough !
Bertha would at once have returned home, carrying
out the story of sudden indisposition. But she felt
the only thing was to brave it out. She did not want
to absent herself at once. The affair would be less
conspicuous with her not away. Her friends must
at once ratify their normal view of this little happen-
ing. The only thing she thought of for the moment
was to hush up and obliterate what had just happened.
Her heroism disappeared in the need for action.
So they all walked on together, a scandalized silence
subsisting in honour chiefly of Kreisler.
Again he was safe, he thought with a chuckle. His
position was precarious, only he held Fraulein Lunken
as hostage ! Exception could not openly be taken
to him, without reflecting on their friend. He
walked along with perfect composure, mischievously
detached and innocent.
Fraulein Lipmann and the rest had already gone
inside. Several people were arriving in taxis and on
foot. Kreisler got in without difficulty. He was the
only man present not in evening-dress.
CHAPTEE II
One certain thing amongst many uncertainties about
the English club, the Bonnington Club, was that
it had not yet found itself quite. Its central room
(and that was all there was of it — a shell of a
house) reminded you of a public swimming-bath
when it was used as a ballroom, and when used
as a studio you thought of a concert -hall. But one
had a respect for it. It had cost a good deal to build.
It was quite phenomenally handsome as seen from
the street, and w^as grateful. It made a cheerful show,
with pink, red, and pale blue paper-chains and Chinese
lanterns, one week for some festivity ; and the next,
sparely robed in dark red curtains, would settle its
132
walls gravely to receive some houseless quartet.
In this manner it paid its way. Some phlegmatic
but obstinate power had brought it into existence.
" Pound a club, found a club ! " it had reiterated in
the depths of certain anonymous minds, with sle ; epy
tenacity. Some one sighed, got up and went round
to another, and said perhaps a club had better be
founded. The other assented and subscribed some-
thing, to get rid of the other. In the course of time
a young French architect had been entrusted with
the job. A club. Yes. What sort of a club ? The
architect could not find out. Something to be used
for drawing-classes, social functions, a reading-room,
etc. He saw he was on the wrong tack. He went
away and made his arrangements accordingly. He
produced a design of an impressive and to all appear-
ance finished house. It was a sincerely ironic master-
piece, but with a perfect gravity, and even stateliness,
of appearance. It was the most non-committing
facade, the most absolutely unfinal interior, the most
tentative set of doors, ever seen : a monster of
reservation.
Not only had it been put to every conceivable use
itself, but it dragged the club with it, as it were.
The club changed and metamorphosed itself with
its changes. The club became athletic or sedentary
according to the shifts and exigencies of the building's
existence. The members turned out in dress-clothes
or gymnasium get-ups as the building's destiny
prompted, to back it up. One month they would
h&ve to prove that it was a gymnasium, the next that
it was a drawing-school.
The inviting of the German contingent was a busi-
ness move. They might be enticed into membership,
and would in any event spread the fame of the club,
getting and subsequently giving some conception of
the resources of the club-house building. The salle
was arranged very prettily. The adjoining rooms
were hung with the drawings and paintings of the
club members.
Kreisler ever since the scene on the boulevard had
133
felt a reckless gaiety and irresponsibility, which he
did not conceal.
With his abashed English hostess he carried on a
strange conversation full of indirect references to the
" stately edifice in the Eue de Eennes." He had
spoken of it to Bertha : " That stately edifice in the
Bue de Eennes — but of course you don't know it ! "
With smiling German ceremoniousness, with in-
genious circumlocutions, he bent down to his hostess's
nervously smiling face and poured into her startled
ear symbols and images of pawnshops, usury, three
gold balls, " pious mountains," " smokkin " or " frac "
suits, etc., which he seemed a little to confuse, over-
whelmed her with a serious terminology, all in a dialect
calculated to bewilder the most acute philologist.
" Yes, it is interesting," she said with strained
conviction.
" Isn't it 1 " Kreisler replied. It was a compara-
tive estimate of the facilities for the disposing of a
watch in Germany and France.
" I'm going to introduce you, Herr Kreisler, to a
friend of mine — Mrs. Bevelage."
She wanted to give the German guests a particu-
larly cordial reception. Kreisler did not seem, super-
ficially, a great acquisition to any club, but he was
with the others. As a means of concluding this very
painful interview — he was getting nearer every minute
to the word that he yet solemnly forbade himself
the use of — she led him to a self- controlled remnant
of beautiful womanhood who had a reputation with
her for worldliness. Mrs. Bevelage could listen to
all this, and would be able to cope with a certain
disquieting element she recognized in the German.
He saw the reason of this measure ; and, looking
with ostentatious regret at a long-legged flapper seated
next door, cast a reproachful glance at his hostess.
Left alone with the widow, he surveyed her ample
and worldly form.
" Get thee to a nunnery ! " he said dejectedly.
" I beg your pardon ? "
11 Yes. You have omitted ' my lord.' "
134
Mrs. Bevelage looked pleased and puzzled. Pos-
sibly he was a count or baron.
" Do you know that stingy but magnificent
edifice "
" Yes ! "
" That handsome home of precarious ' fracs ' in
the Eue de Eennes ? "
" I'm afraid I don't quite understand — " The
widow had not got used to his composite tongue.
She liked Kreisler, however.
" Shall we dance ? " he said, getting up quickly.
He clasped her firmly in the small of the back and
they got ponderously in motion, he stamping a little
bit, as though he mistook the waltz for a more
primitive music.
He took her twice, with ever-increasing velocity,
round the large hall, and at the third round, at break-
neck speed, spun with her in the direction of the
front door.
The impetus was so great that she, although
seeing her peril, could not act sufficiently as a break
on her impetuous companion to avert the disaster.
Another moment and they would have been in the
street, amongst the traffic, a disturbing meteor,
whizzing out of sight, had they not met the alarmed
resistance of a considerable English family entering
the front door as Kreisler bore down upon it. It
was one of those large, featureless, human groups
built up by a frigid and melancholy pair, uncannily
fecund, during interminable years of blankness. They
received this violent couple in their midst. The rush
took Kreisler and his partner half-way through, and
there they stood embedded and unconscious for
many seconds. The English family then, with great
dignity, disgorged them and moved on.
The widow had come somewhat under the fascina-
tion of Kreisler's mood. She was really his woman,
had he known it. She felt wrapt in the midst of a
simoon — she had not two connected thoughts. All
her worldliness and measured management of her fat
had vanished. Her face had become coarsened in a
135
few minutes. But she buzzed back again into the
dance and began a second, mad, but this time merely-
circular career.
Kreisler was very careful, whatever he did, to find
a reason for it. " He was abominably short-sighted ;
he had mistaken the front door for one leading into
the third room, merely." His burden, not in the
best condition, was becoming more and more puffed,
and heavier every moment. When satisfied with
this part of his work he led Mrs. Bevelage into a
sort of improvised conservatory and talked about
pawnshops for ten minutes or so — in a mixture of
French, English, and German. He then reconducted
her, more dead than alive, to her seat, and strode off
from her with great sweeps of his tall figure.
He had during this incident regained complete
impassivity. He stalked away to the conservatory.
Bertha had soon been called on to dance vigorously
without much intermission. In the convolutions of
the valse, however, she matured a bold and new plan.
She whirled and trotted with a preoccupied air.
Would Tarr hear of all this f She was alarmed, now
it was done. Also she was cowed and sorry for her
action at the thought of Lipmann and Van Bencke's
attitude towards the Kreisler kissing. She undoubt-
edly must secure herself. The plan she hit on offered
a " noble " role that she could not, in any circumstances,
have resisted.
Her scheme was plain and clever. She would
simply " tell the truth."
" She had recognized something distracting in
Kreisler's life, the presence of crisis. On an impulse,
she had offered him her sympathy. He had taken
up her offer immediately in an astonishing and brutal
manner. (One against him : two for her !) Such
direct and lurid sympathy he claimed."
So she jogged out her strategies in exhilaration
of the waltzes.
At this point of her story she would hint, by
ambiguous hesitation, that she, in truth, had been
136
ready even for this sacrifice : had made it, if her
hearers wished ! She would imply rather that from
modesty — not wanting to appear too " noble " — she
refrained from telling them.
It is true that for such a confession she had many
precedents. Only a week ago Fraulein Van Bencke
herself, inflating proudly her stout handsome person,
had told them that while in Berlin she had allowed
a young painter to kiss her : she believed " that the
caresses of a pure woman would be helpful to him at
that juncture of his life." But this had not been,
it was to be supposed, in the middle of the street*
No one had ever seen, or ever would see, the young
painter in question, or the kiss.
Busy with these plans, Bertha had not much time
to notice Kreisler's further deportment. She came
across him occasionally, and keyed her solid face
into an intimate flush and such mask as results
from any sickly physical straining. " Poor mensch ! "
Soltyk surprised one Anglo-Saxon partner after
another with his wonderful English — unnecessarily
like the real thing. He went about surprising people
in a cold, tireless way, exhibiting no signs of pleasure,
except as much as was testified to by his action,
merely.
Kreisler saw him with Anastasya only twice. On
those occasions he could not, on the strength of
Soltyk's attitude, pin him down as a rival. Yet he
was thirsting for conventional figures. His endless
dissatisfaction and depression could only be satisfied
by active things, unlilce itself. Soltyk's self-possessed
and masterly signs of distinguished camaraderie
depressed Kreisler very much. The Eussian had
been there once at the critical moment, and was, more
distantly, an attribute of Volker. He did not like
him. How it would satisfy him to dig his fingers
into that flesh, and tear it like thick cloth ! He was
"for it" ; he was going out. He was being helped
off by things. Why did he not shout ? He longed to
act : the rusty machine had a thirst for action.
His energies were repudiating their master.
137
Soltyk' s analogies with Kreisler worked in the
dark to some end of mutual destruction. The
nuance of possibility Soltyk liked his friendships with
women to have, was a different affair to Kreisler's
heady and thorough -going intrigues. But he liked
his soul to be marked with little delicate wounds and
wistfulnesses. He liked an understanding, a little
melancholy, with a woman. They would just divine
in each other possibilities of passion, that was yet
too lasse and sad to rise to the winding of
Love's horns that were heard, nevertheless, in a
decor Versaillesque and Polonais. They were people
who looked forward as others look back. They would
say farewell to the future as most men gaze at the past.
At the most they played the slight dawning and dis-
appearing of passion, cutting, fastidiously, all the
rest of the piece. So he was often found with women.
Life had no lethargic intervals as with Kreisler. It
at all times needed " expression " of such sort.
For Anastasya, Soltyk was one of her many im-
presarios, who helped her on to and off the scene of
Life. He bored her usually, but they had something
equivalent to pleasant business relations. She appre-
ciated him as an Impresario.
These things arraying themselves in reality after
this ordinary unexciting fashion, conventional figures
of drama lacked. Kreisler was in the wrong company.
But he conformed for the sake of the Invisible Audi-
ence haunting life. He emulated the matter-of-
factness and aplomb that impressed him in the
others a outrance. So much was this so that the
Audience took some time to notice him, the vein of
scandal running through the performance.
In the conservatory he established his head-
quarters.
From there he issued forth on various errands. All
his errands showed the gusto of the logic of his
personality, and not despair. He might have been
enjoying himself. He invented outrage that was
138
natural to him, and enjoyed slightly the licence and
scope of his indifference.
He, for instance, at the first sortie, noticed a rather
congested, hot, and spectacled young woman, rather
constantly fluttered over her womanhood, but over-
worked by her conscience, her features set by duty.
He succeeded in getting her for a partner, and soon
won her confidence by his scrupulous German polite-
ness. He then, while marking time in a crush, dis-
engaged his hand, and appeared to wish to alter
the he of her bosom, very apologetically.
11 Excuse me ! It's awkward. More to the left —
so ! Clumsy things and women are so proud of them !
(No : I'm sure you're not !) No. Let it hang to
the left ! " The young lady, very red, and snorting
almost in his face, left him brusquely.
Several young women, and notably a flapper,
radiant with heavy inexperience and loaded with
bristling bronze curls, he lured into the conservatory.
They all came out with scarlet faces.
For the first hour he paid no attention to Anastasya,
but prosecuted his antics as though he had forgotten
all about her. He knew she was there and left her
alone, even in thought, in a grim spirit. He hid
coquettishly behind his solemn laughter-in-aetion,
the pleasant veil of his hysteria.
He had become generally noticed in the room,
although there were a great many people present.
Fraulein Lipmann hesitated. She thought at length
that he was mad. In speaking to him and getting
him removed, she feared a scandalous scene.
As he appeared on the threshold of the conservatory
an expectant or anxious tremor invaded several backs.
But he just stalked round this time on a tour of
inspection, as though to see that all was going along
as it should. He stared heavily and significantly
at those young ladies who had been his partners,
when he came across them. One he stopped in front
of and gazed at severely. He then returned to the
conservatorv.
139
In his deck chair, his head stretched back, glasses
horizontal and facing the ceiling, he considered the
graceless Hamlet that he was.
4 * Go to a nunnery, Widow ! "
He should have been saying that to his
Ophelia.
Why did he not go to her f Contact was the essential
thing, but so difficult to bring about.
He must make her angry, insult her : that would
bare her soul. Then he would spit on it. Then he
really could insult her. But Soltyk offered a con-
ventional target for violence. Soltyk was evading
him with his contempt. Soltyk ! What should be
done with him ? Why (a prolonged and stormily
rising " why "), there was no difficulty about that
He got up from his chair, and walked deliberately
and quickly into the central room. But Soltyk was
nowhere to be seen.
The dancers were circling rapidly past with athletic
elation, talking in the way people talk when they are
working. Their intelligences floated and flew above
the waves of the valse, but with frequent drenchings,
as it were, and cessations. The natural strangeness
for him of all these English people together did not
arrest his mind or lead him to observation, but yet
got a little in the way. Couple followed couple, the
noise of their feet, or dress, for a moment queerly
distinct and near above the rest, as though a yard or
two of quiet surrounded Kreisler. They came into
this area for a moment, everything distinct and clear
cut, and then went out again. Each new pair of
dancers seemed coming straight for him. Their
voices were loud for a moment. A hole was cut out
of the general noise, as it were opening a passage into
it. Each new face was a hallucination of separate
energy, seeming very distant, laughs, words, move-
ments. They were like trunkless, living heads
rolling and bobbing past, a sea of them. The two or
three instruments behind the screen of palms pro-
duced the necessary measures to keep this throng of
people careering, like a spoon stirring in a saucepan.
140
It stirred and stirred and they jerked and huddled
insipidly round and round.
Kreisler was drawn up at the first door for a minute.
„ He was just taking a step forward to work his way
round to the next, when he caught sight of Anastasya
dancing with (he supposed) some Englishman.
He stopped, paralysed by her appearance. This
reality intercepted the course of his imaginary life
(of which his pursuit of Soltyk was a portion). He
stood like somebody surprised in a questionable act.
He had not reckoned on being met by her before
his present errand was finished. The next moment
he was furious at this interference ; at her having
the power to draw him up. This imaginary life
should grow. Hell and Heaven ! he was not going to
stop there looking at her. She and her partner had
drawn up for a moment just in his way, being
stopped by other couples marking time. She had
not seen him. He took her partner roughly by the
arm, pushing him against her, hustling him, fixing
him with his eye. He passed beyond them then,
through the passage he had made. His blood was
flooding him, and making him expand and sink like a
Eussian dancer. The young man handled in this
manner, shy and unprompt, stared after Kreisler
with a " What the devil ! " People are seldom
so rude in England. Preparation for outbursts of
potential rudeness form a part of the training of a
German. Kreisler also, without apology, but as if
waiting for more vigorous expostulation, was also
looking back, while he stepped slowly along the wall
towards a door beyond, the one leading to the re-
freshment-room.
Anastasya freed herself at once from her partner
and pale and frowning (but as though waiting) was
looking after Kreisler curiously. She would have
liked him to stop. He had done something strange
and was as suddenly going away. That was unsatis-
factory. They looked at each other blankly. He
showed no sign of stopping : she just stared. Sud-
denly it was comic. She burst out laughing. But
141
they had clashed, like people in the dance, and were
both disappearing from each other again, the shock
hardly over. The contact had been brought about.
He was still as surprised at his action, which had been
done " in a moment," as she was. Anastasya felt,
too, in what way this had been contact. She felt his
hand on her arm as though it had been she he had
seized. This rough figure disappeared in the doorway,
as incapable of explaining anything. She shivered
nervously as she grasped her partner's arm again,
at this merely physical contact " What's the matter
with that chap ? " her partner asked, conscious of a
lameness, but of something queer going on. This
question had been asked a few minutes before else-
where. " Herr Kreisler is behaving very strangely.
Do you think he's been drinking ? " Fraulein Lipmann
had asked Eckhart.
Eckhart was a little drunk himself. He took a
very decided view of Kreisler' s case.
" Comme toute la Pologne ! As drunk as the
whole of Poland ! " he affirmed. But he only gave
it as an opinion, adding no sign of particular indigna-
tion. He was beaming with greedy generosity at his
great Amoureuse.
" Ah ! here he comes again ! " said Fraulein Lip-
mann at the door. (It was when Kreisler had started
up in search of Soltyk).
So Kreisler disappeared in the doorway. He
passed through the refreshment-room. In a small
room beyond he sat down by an open window.
Anastasya had at last got into line with him. She
had been startled, awakened, and had also laughed.
This was an exact and complete response to Kreisler
at the present. Something difficult to understand
and which should have been alarming for a woman,
the feel of the first tugs of the maelstrom he was pro-
ducing and conducting all on his own, and which
required her for its heart : and then laughter, neces-
sarily, once one was in that atmosphere, like laughing
gas, with its gusty tickling.
But this was not how Kreisler felt about it. He
142
was boiling and raging. That laugh had driven him
foaming, fugitive and confused, into the nearest
chair. He could not turn round and retaliate at the
time. The door being in front of him, he vanished
as Mephistopheles might sink with suddenness into
the floor, at the receipt of some affront, to some
sulphurous regions beneath, in a second ; come to a
stop alone, upright ; stick his fingers in his mouth,
nearly biting them in two, his eyes staring : so stand
stock still, breathless and haggard for some minutes :
then shoot up again, head foremost, in some other
direction, like some darting and skulking fish, to the
face of the earth. He did not even realize that the
famous contact was established, so furious was he.
He would go and strike her across the mouth, spit
in her face, kiss her in the middle of the dance, where
the laugh had been ! Yet he didn't move, but sat on
staring in front of him, quite forgetful where he was
and how long he had sat there, in the midst of a hot
riot of thoughts.
He suddenly sat up and looked round, like a man
who has been asleep and for whom work is waiting ;
got up with certain hesitation, and again made for
the door. Well, life and work (Ms business) must
be proceeded with all the same. He glanced reflec-
tively and solemnly about, and perceived the Widow
talking to a little reddish Englishman.
" May I take the Widow away for a little ? " he
asked her companion.
He always addressed her as " Widow " : he began
all his discourses with a solemn " Widow ! " occasion-
ally alternating it with " Derelict ! " But this, all
uttered in a jumbled tongue, lost some of its
significance.
The little Englishman on being addressed gave the
English equivalent of a jump — a sudden moving of
his body and shuffling of his feet, still looking at the
floor, where he had cast his eyes as Kreisler
approached.
« what ? I "
" Widow ! permit me " said Kreisler*
143
Manipulating her with a leisurely gusto, he circled
into the dance.
The band was playing the " Merry Widow " valse.
" Merry Widow! " he said smilingly to his partner.
" Yes, Merry Widow ! " shaking his head at her.
The music seemed fumbling in a confused mass of
memory, but finding nothing definite. All it managed
to bring to light was a small cheap photograph, taken
at a Bauern Bal, with a flat German student's cap.
The man remained just his photograph. Their
hostess also was dancing. Kreisler noted her with a
wink of recognition. Dancing very slowly, almost
mournfully, he and his partner bumped into her
each time as they passed. The Widow felt the impact,
but it was only at the third round that she perceived
the method and intention inducing these bumps.
She realized they were going to collide with the other
lady. The collision could not be avoided. But she
shrank away, made herself as small and soft as
possible, bumped gently and apologized over her
shoulder, with a smile and screwing up of the eyes,
full of meaning. At the fourth turn of the room,
however, Kreisler having increased her speed sensibly,
she was on her guard, and in fact already suggesting
that she should be taken back to her seat. He pre-
tended to be giving their hostess a wide berth this
time, but suddenly and gently swerved, and bore down
upon her. The Widow veered frantically, took a
false step, tripped on her dress, tearing it, and fell
to the ground. They caused a circular undulating
commotion throughout the neighbouring dancers
like a stone falling in a pond. Several people bent
down to help Mrs. Bevelage — Kreisler's assistance
was angrily rejected. His partner scrambled to her
feet and went to the nearest chair, followed by one
or two people.
"Who is he? "
" He's drunk."
" What happened 1 "
" He ought to be turned out ! " people said who had
seen the accident.
144
Kreisler regained the conservatory with great
dignity.
But now Fraulein Lippmann, alone, appeared
Jbefore him as he lay stretched in his chair, and said
in a tight, breaking voice :
" I think, Herr Kreisler, you would do well now,
as you have done nothing all the evening but render
yourself objectionable, to relieve us of your company.
I don't know whether you're drunk. I hope you
are, for "
" You hope I'm drunk, Fraulein % " he asked in an
astonished voice.
He remained lolling at full length.
" A lady I was dancing with fell over, owing
entirely to her own clumsiness and intractability —
but perhaps she was drunk ; I didn't think of that."
" So you're not going ? "
11 Certainly, Fraulein — when you go ! We'll go
together."
11 Schensal ! " Hurling hotly this epithet at him
— her breath had risen many degrees in temperature
at its passage, and her breast heaved in dashing it
out (as though, in fact, the word " schensal " had
been the living thing, and she were emptying her
breast of it violently), she left the room. His last
exploit had been accomplished in a half disillusioned
state. He merely went on farcing because he could
think of nothing else to do. Anastasya's laughter
had upset and ended everything of his " imaginary
life." He told himself now that he hated her. " Ich
hasse dich ! Ich hasse dich ! " he hissed over to
himself, enjoying the wind of the " hasse " in his
moustaches. But (there was no doubt about it) the
laugh had crushed him. Eidiculous and hateful
had been his goal. But now that he had succeeded
he thought chiefly in the latter affair, he was over-
whelmed. His vanity was wounded terribly. In
laughing at him she had puffed out and transformed
in an extraordinary way, also, his infatuation. For
the first time since he had first set eyes on her he
realized her sex. His sensuality had been directly
145 K
stirred. He wanted to kiss lier now. He must get
his month on hers — he mnst revel in the laugh, where
it grew ! She was nefaste. She was in fact evidently
the devil.
So his idee fixe having suddenly taken body and
acquired flesh, now allied to his senses, the vibration
became more definitely alarming. He began think-
ing about her with a slow moistening of the lips.
" I shall possess her ! " he said to himself, seeing
himself in the role of the old Berserker warrior,
ravening and irresistible. The use of the word shall
in that way was enough.
But this infernal dance ! With the advent of the
real feeling all the artificial ones flew or diminished
at once. He was no longer romantically " desperate,"
but bored with his useless position there. All his
attention was now concentrated on a practical issue,
that of the " possession " of Anastasya.
He was tired as though he had been dancing the
whole evening. He got up and threw his cigarette
away ; he even dusted his coat a little with his hand.
He then, not being able to get at the white patch on
the shoulder, took it off and shook it. A large grey
handkerchief was used to flick his boots with.
" So ! " he grunted, smartly shooting on his coat.
The central room, when he got into it, appeared a
different place. People were standing about and
waiting for the next tune. It had been completely
changed by his novel and material feeling for Ana-
stasya. Everything, for a second time, was quite
ordinary, but not electrically ordinary, almost hushed,
this time. He had become a practical man, sur-
rounded by facts. But he was much more worried
and tired than at the beginning of the evening.
To get away was his immediate thought. But
he felt hungry. He went into the refreshment-room.
On the same side as the door, a couple of feet to the
right, was a couch. The trestle-bar with the re-
freshments ran the length of the opposite wall. The
room was quiet and almost empty. Out of the tail
of his eye, as he entered, be became conscious of
146
something. He turned towards the couch. Soltyk
and Anastasya were sitting there, and looking at
him with the abrupt embarrassment people show when
an absentee under discussion suddenly appears.
He flushed and was about to turn back to the door.
But he flushed still more next moment, at thought of
his hesitation. This humiliating full-stop beneath
their eyes must be wiped out, anyhow. He walked
on steadily to the bar.
A shy consciousness of his physique beset him.
He felt again an outcast — of an inferior class, socially.
He must not show this. He must be leisurely.
He was leisurely. He thought when he stretched
his hand out to take his cup of coffee that it would
never reach it. Eeduced to posing nude for Ana-
stasya and the Eussian was the result of the evening !
Scores of little sensations, like troublesome imps,
herded airily behind him. They tickled him with
impalpable fingers.
He munched sandwiches without the faintest
sense of their taste. Anastasya's eyes were scourging
him. He felt like a martyr. Suddenly conscious
of an awkwardness in his legs, he changed his position.
His arms were ludicrously disabled. The sensation
of standing neck deep in horrid filth beset him.
Compelled to remain in soaking wet clothes and
unable to change them, his body gradually drying
them, would have been a similar discomfort. The
noise of the dancing began again, filled the room.
This purified things somewhat. He got red in the
fa'ce as though with a gigantic effort, but went on
staring in front of him.
His anger kept rising. He stood there deliberately
longer ; in fact on and on, almost in the same position.
She should wait his pleasure till he liked to turn
round, and — then. He allowed her laughter to
accumulate on his back, like a coat of mud. In his
illogical vision he felt her there behind him laughing
and laughing interminably. Had he gone straight
up to her, in a moment of passion, both disembodied
as it were, anything in the shape of objective obser-
147
vation disappearing, he could have avoided this
scrutiny. He had preferred to plank himself there
in front of her, inevitably ridiculous, a mark for that
laugh of hers. Soltyk was sharing it. More and
more Ms laughter became intolerable. The tradi-
tional solution again suggested itself. Laugh ! Laugh !
He would stand there letting the debt grow, letting
them gorge themselves on his back. The attendant
behind the bar began observing him with severe
curiosity. He had stood in almost the same position
for five minutes and kept staring darkly past her,
very red in the face. Then suddenly a laugh burst
out behind him — a blow, full of insult, in his ears —
and he nearly jumped off the ground. After his long
immobility the jump was of the last drollery. His
fists clenched, his face emptied of every drop of
colour, in the mere action he had almost knocked a
man, standing beside him, over. The laugh, for him,
had risen with tropic suddenness, a simoom of intoler-
able offence. It had carried him off his legs, or
whirled him round rather, in a second. A young
English girl, already terrified at Kreisler's appearance,
and a man, almost as much so, stood open-mouthed
in front of him. As to Anastasya and Soltyk, they
had very completely disappeared, long before, in all
probability.
To find that he had been struggling and perspiring
in the grasp of a shadow was a fresh offence, merely,
for the count of the absentees. Obviously, shadow
or not, there or not there, it was they. He felt this
a little ; but they had disappeared into the JEwigTceit
for the moment. He had been again beating the air.
This should have been a climax, of blows, words,
definite things. But things remained vague. The
turmoil of the evening remained his, the solid part
of it, unshared by anybody else. He smiled, rather
hideously and menacingly, at the two English people
near him, and walked away. He was not going in
search of Anastasya. They would be met somewhere
or other, no doubt. All he wanted now was to get
away from the English club as soon as possible.
148
While he was making towards the vestibule he was
confronted again with Fraulein Lipmann. " Herr
Kreisler, I wish to speak to you," he heard her
say.
" Go to the devil ! " he answered without hesitation
or softness.
" Besotted fool ! if you don't go at once, I'll
get "
Turning on her like lightning, with exasperation
perfectly meeting hers, his right hand threatening,
quickly raised towards his left shoulder, he shouted :
" Lass mich doch — gemeine alte Sau ! "
The hissing, thunderous explosion was the last
thing in vocal virulence. The muscles all seemed
gathered up at his ears like reins, and the flesh
tightened and white round his mouth.
Fraulein Lipmann took several steps back. Kreisler
with equal quickness turned away, rapped on the
counter, while the attendant looked for his hat, and
left the Club. Fraulein Lippmann was left with the
heavy, unforgettable word " sow " deposited in her
boiling spirit, that, boil as it might, would hardly
reduce this word to tenderness or digestibility.
149
PAKT IV
A JEST TOO DEEP FOE LAUGHTEE
CHAPTEE I
With a little scratching (as the concierge pushed
it) with the malignity of a little, quiet, sleek
animal, the letter from Germany crept under the
door the next morning, and lay there through the
silence of the next hour or two, until Kreisler
woke. Succeeding to his first brutal farewells to
his dreams, no hopes leapt on his body, a magnifi-
cent stallion's, uselessly refreshed. Soon he saw the
letter. It lay there quiet, unimportant, rather
matter of fact and sly.
Kreisler felt it an indignity to have to open it.
Until his dressing was finished, it remained where it
was. He might have been making some one wait.
Then he took it up, and opening it, drew out between
his forefinger and thumb, the cheque. This he
deposited with as much contempt as possible, and a
" phui " on the edge of his washhand stand. Then he
turned to the letter. He read the first few lines,
pumping at a cigarette, reducing it mathmetically to
ash. Cold fury entered his mind with a bound at the
first words. They were the final words giving
notice of a positive stoppage of supplies. This
month's money was sent to enable him to settle up his
affairs and come to Germany at once.
He read the first three lines over and over again,
going no further, although the news begun in these
150
first lines was developed throughout the two pages of
the letter. Then he put it down beside the cheque,
and crushing it under his fist, said monotonously to
himself, without much more feeling than the sound of
the word contained : " Schwein, Schwein, Schwein ! "
He got up, and pressed his hand on his forehead ;
it was wet : he put his hands in his pockets and these
came into contact with a cinquante centime piece.
He took them out again slowly, went to his box
and underneath an old dressing-gown found writing
paper and envelopes. Then, referring to his father's
letter for the date, he wrote the following lines :
" 1th June 19—
"Sir, — I shall not return as you suggest in
person, but my body will no doubt be sent to you
about the middle of next month. If — keeping to
your decision — no money is sent, it being impossible
to live without money, I shall on the seventh of
July, this day next month, shoot myself.
"Otto Kreisler."
Within half an hour this was posted. Then he
went and had breakfast with more tranquillity and
relish than he had known for some days. He sat up
stiffly like a dilapidated but apparently in some way
satisfied rooster at his caf6 table. This life was now
settled, pressure ceased. He had come to a conven-
tional and respectable decision. His conduct the
night before, for instance, had not been at all respect-
able. Death — like a monastery — was before him,
with equivalents of a slight shaving of the head
merely, a handful of vows, some desultory farewells,
very restricted space, but none the worse for that ;
with something like the disagreeableness of a dive for
one not used to deep water. But he had got into life,
anyhow, by mistake; il s'etait trompe de porte. His
life might almost have been regarded as a long and
careful preparation for voluntary death. The night-
mare of Death, as it haunted the imaginations of the
Egyptians, had here been conjured in another way.
151
Death was not to be overcome with embalmings and
Pyramids, or fought within the souls of children. It
was confronted as some other more uncompromising
race (and yet also haunted by this terrible idea)
might have been.
Instead of rearing smooth faces of immense stone
against it, you imagine an unparalleled immobility
in life, a race of statues, throwing flesh in Death's
path instead of basalt. Kreisler would have un-
doubtedly been a high priest among this people.
CHAPTEE II
In a large fluid but nervous handwriting, the following
letter lay, read, as it were : Bertha still keeping her
eye on it from a distance :
11 Dear Bertha, — I am writing at the Gare St.
Lazare, on my way to England. You have made
things much easier for me in one way of course, far
more difficult in another. Parenthetically, I may
mention that the whimsical happenings between
you and your absurd countryman in full moonlight
are known to me. They were recounted with a
wealth of detail that left nothing to the imagination,
happily for my peculiar possessive sensitiveness,
known to you. I don't know whether that little
red-headed bitch — the colour of Iscariot, so perhaps
she is — is a friend of yours ? Kreisler ! I was
offered an introduction to him the other day,
which I refused. It seems he has introduced
himself !
" Before, I had contemplated retiring to a little
distance for the purpose of reflection. This last
coup of yours necessitates a much further
recul, withdrawal — a couple of hundred miles at
least, I have judged. And as far as I can see I shall
be some months — say ten — away. I am not wise
enough to take your action an pied de la lettre;
152
nevertheless, you may consider yourself free as
women go. What I mean is you need not trouble
to restrain the exuberance of your exploits in future.
(What rubbish !) Let them develop naturally,
right up to fianp allies, or elsewhere. I have a very
German idea. Why should not girls have two or
three fiances ! Not two or three husbands. But
fianc£, especially nowadays, is an elastic term.
Why shouldn't fianc6 take the place of husband ?
It is a very respectable word : a very respectable
state. But my idea was that of a club, organized
around the fiancee. You seem to me cut out for
such a club. A man might spend quite a pleasant
time with the other fiances. A fine science of
women would be developed, perhaps along Oriental
lines a little. Then a man would remember the
different clubs he had belonged to. Some very
beautiful women might have a sort of University
settled near them. To have belonged to one of
these celebrated but ephemeral institutions would
insure a man success with less illustrious queens.
1 He was a fianc6 of Fraulein Stuck's, you know,'
would carry prestige. You have Germanized me
in a horrible way ! Anyhow, you may count on me
should you think of starting a little institution of
that sort. My address for the next few months
will be 10 Waterford Street, London, W.C. — Yours,
"Sorbett."
He spelt his name with two T's because Bertha
had never disciplined herself to suppress final con-
sonants.
Bertha was in her little kitchen. It was near the
front door. Next to it was her studio or salon, then
bedroom : along a passage at right angles the rooms
rented by Clara Goenthner, her friend.
The letter had been laid on the table, by the side
of which stood the large gas-stove, like a safe, its gas
stars, on top, blasting away luridly at pans and
saucepans with Bertha's breakfast. While busying
herself with eggs and coffee, she gazed over her arm
153
reflectively at the letter. It was a couple of inches too
far away for her to be able to read it.
The postman had come ten minutes before. It was
now four days after the dance, and since she had last
seen Tarr. She had " felt " he would come on that
particular morning. The belief in woman's intuition
is not confined, of course, to men. " Could he have
heard anything of the Kreisler incident ? " she had
asked herself. The possibility of this was terrifying.
But perhaps it would be as well if he had. It might
at any future time crop up. And what things had
happened when other older things had come to light
suddenly ! She would tell him if he had not already
heard. He should hear it from her. The great
boulevard sacrifice of the other night had appeared
folly, long ago. But peculiarly free from any form
of spite — she did not feel unkindly towards Kreisler.
So Sorbert was expected to breakfast, on the
authority of her intuition. Bread was being fried in
fat. What manner of man would appear, how far
renseignd — or if not informed, still all their other
difficulties were there inevitably enough ? Experience,
however, suggested such breakfast as pleased him.
Could fried toast and honey play a part in such
troubles ? Ah, yes. Troubles often reduced them-
selves to fried bread and honey : they could sow
troubles, why not help to quell troubles ? But she
had had a second intuition that he knew. Not know-
ing how stormy their interview might be she neglected
no minute precautions — and these were the touching
ones — any more than the sailor would neglect to stow
away even the smallest of his sails, I suppose, at the
sulky approach of a simoom. The simoom, however,
had left her becalmed and taken the train for Dieppe
instead of coming in her direction.
154
CHAPTEE III
Bertha went on turning the bread over in the pan,
taking the butter from its paper and dropping it into
its dish : rinsing and wiping a knife or two, regulating
the gas. Frequent truculent exclamations spluttered
out if anything went wrong. " Verdammtes Streich-
holz ! " " Donnerwetter ! " She used the oaths of
Goethe. One eyebrow was raised in humorous re-
flective irritation. She would flatten the letter out
and bend down to examine a sentence, stopping her
cooking for a moment.
" Salot ! " she exclaimed, after having read the
letter all through again, putting it down. She turned
with coquettish contemptuousness to her frying-pan.
" Salot" was, with her, a favourite epithet. Clara's
door opened, and Bertha crumpled the letter into her
pocket. Clara entered sleepy-eyed and affecting ill-
humour. Her fat body was a softly distributed
burden, which she carried with the aplomb and in-
difference of habit. She had a gracefully bumpy
forehead, a nice whistling mouth, soft, good and dis-
creet orbs. Her days were passed in the library of the
Place Saint Sulpice.
" Ach, lasse ! lass mich doch ! Get on with your
cooking ! " she exclaimed as Bertha began her
customary sociable and playful greeting. Bertha
always was conscious of her noise, of shallowness and
worldliness, with this shrewd, indifferent, slow, and
monosyllabic bookworm. She wanted to caper round
it, inviting it to cumbrous play, like a small lively dog
around a heavy one. She was much more femme
as she said, but aware that Clara did not regard this
as an attainment. Being femme had taken up so
much of her energy and life that she could not expect
to be so complete in other ways as Clara. With this
other woman, who was much less " woman " than she,
she always felt impelled to ultra -feminine behaviour.
She was childish to the top of her bent. This was
insulting to the other : it showed too clearly Bertha's
155
way of regarding her as not so much femme as
herself. Clara felt this and would occasionally show
impatience at Bertha's skittishness : a gruff man-
like impatience entering grimly but imperturbably
into the man-part, but claiming at the same time its
prerogatives.
Clara had had no known love affairs. She regarded
Bertha, sometimes, with much curiosity. This
" woman's temperament," so complacently displayed,
soothed and tickled her.
" Clara, Soler has told me to send a picture to the
Salon d'Automne."
" Oh ! " Clara was not impressed by " success."
She was preparing her own breakfast and jostled
Bertha, usurping more than half the table. Bertha,
delighted, retorted with trills of shrill indignation and
by recapturing the positions lost by her plates. Her
breakfast ready she carried it into her room, pre-
tending to be offended with Clara.
Breakfast over she wrote to Tarr. The letter was
written quite easily and directly. She was so sure
in the convention of her passion that there was no
scratching out or hesitation. " I feel so far away
from you." There was nothing more to be said ; as
it had been said often before, it came easily and
promptly with the pen. All the feeling that could
find expression was fluent, large and assured, like the
handwriting, and went at once into these conventional
forms.
" Let Englishmen thank their stars — the good stars
of the Northmen and early seamen — that they have
such stammering tongues and such a fierce horror of
grandiloquence. They are still primitive and true in
their passions, because they are afraid of them, like
children. The shocks go on underneath ; they trust
their unconsciousness. The odious facility of the
South, whether it be their, at bottom, very shrewdly
regulated anger (Vart de s'engueuler) or their pic-
ture post card perfection of amorous expressiveness ;
such things those Island mutterers and mutes have
escaped. But worst of all is the cult of the < Tempera-
156
ment, 7 all the accent on that poor last syllable, whose
home is that dubious middle Empire, so incorrigibly
banal. The lacerating and tireless pricking and
„ pushing of this hapless ' temperament ' is a more
harrowing spectacle than the use of dogs in Belgium
or women in England."
This passage, from an article in the English Review,
Tarr had shown to Bertha with great pleasure
Bertha had a good share of impoverished and over-
worked temperament, but in a very genial fashion.
It had not, with her, grown crooked and vicious with
this constant ill-treatment. It was strenuous but
friendly. It served in any case a mistress surprisingly
disinterested and gentle.
On the receipt of Tarr's letter she had felt, to begin
with, very indignant and depressed at his having had
the strength to go away without coming to see her.
So her letter began on that complaint. He had at
last, this was certain, gone away, with the first
likelihood of permanence since they had known each
other. Despite her long preparation for this, and her
being even deliberately the cause of it, she was
mortified and at the same time unhappy at the sight
of her success.
The Kreisler business had been more for herself than
anything, for her own private edification. She would
free Sorbert by an act, in a sort of impalpable way.
It was not destined as yet for publicity. The fact
of the women surprising Kreisler and her on the
boulevard had put everything at once out of perspec-
tive, damaged her illusion of sacrifice. Compelled
at once to be practical again, find excuses, repudiate
immediately what she had done before she had been
able to enjoy or digest it, was like a man being
snatched away from table, the last mouthful hardly
swallowed She was the person surprised before some
work doing is completed — it still in a rudimentary
unshowable state. For once Tarr was not only in
the right, but, to her irritation, he had proofs, splendid
ocular proofs, a cloud of witnesses.
To end nobly, on her own initiative, had been her
157
idea ; to make a last sacrifice to Sorbert in leaving
him irrevocably, as she had sacrificed her feelings all
along in allowing their engagement to drag sus-
piciously on, in making her position slightly uncom-
fortable with her friends (and these social things
meant so much to her in addition). And now,
instead, everything had been turned into questionable
meanness and ridicule ; when she had intended to
behave with the maximum of swagger, she suddenly
found herself relegated to a skulking and unfortunate
plane.
Considerations about Fate beset her. Everything
was hopelessly unreliable. The best thing to do was to
do nothing. She was not her usual energetic too
spiritually bustling self. She wrote her letter quite
easily and as usual, but she did not (very unusually)
believe in its efficacy. She even wrote it a trifle more
easily than usual for that reason.
It was only a momentary rebellion against the ease
with which this protest was done. Perhaps had it not
been for the fascination of habit, then some more
adequate words would have been written. His
letter had come. Empty and futile she had done her
task, answered as she must do ; " As we all must
do ! " she would have thought, with an exclama-
tion mark after it. She sealed up her letter and
addressed it.
In the drawer where she was putting Sorbert' s
latest letter away were some old ones. A letter of
the year before she took out and read. With its two
sentences it was more cruel and had more meaning
than the one she had just received : " Put off that
little Darmstadt woman. Let's be alone."
It was a note she had received on the eve of an
expedition to a village near Paris. She had promised
to take a girl down with them, to show her the place,
its hotel and other possibilities — she had stayed there
once or twice herself. The Darmstadt girl had not
been taken. Sorbert and she had spent the night at
an inn on the outskirts of the forest. They had come
back in the train next dav without speaking, having
158
quarrelled somehow or other in the inn. Chagrin and
regret for him struck her a series of sharp blows. She
started crying again suddenly, quickly, and vehemently
as though surprised by some thought.
The whole morning her work worried her, dusting
and arranging. She experienced a revolt against her
ceaseless orderliness, a very grave thing in such an
exemplary prisoner. At four o'clock in the afternoon,
as often happened, she was still dawdling about in
her dressing-gown and had not yet had lunch.
The femwx de menage came at about eight in the
morning, doing Clara's rooms first. Bertha was in
the habit of discussing politics with Madame Vannier.
Sorbert too was discussed.
" Mademoiselle est triste ? " this good woman said,
noticing her dejection. " C'est encore Monsieur
Sorbert qui vous a fait du chagrin ? "
" Oui madame, c'est un Salot ! " Bertha replied,
half crying.
" Oh, il ne faut pas dire §a, mademoiselle. Com-
ment, il est un Salot ? " Madame Vannier worked
silently with soft quiet thud of felt slippers. She
appeared to regard work as not without dignity.
Bertha was playing at life. She admired and liked
her as an emblem of Fortune ; she respected herself
as an emblem of Misfortune. Madame Vannier was
given the letter to post at two.
CHAPTEE IV
Bertha's friends looked for her elsewhere, nowadays,
than at her rooms. Tarr was always likely to be
found there in impolite possession. She made them
come as often as she could ; her coquetry as regards
her carefully arranged rooms needed satisfaction. She
suffered in the midst of her lonely tastefulness. But
Tarr had certainly made these rooms a rather deserted
place. Since the dance none of her women friends had
come. She had spent an hour or two with them at
the restaurant.
159
At the dance she had kept rather apart. Dazed,
after a shock, and needing self-collection, was the
line sketched. Her account of things could not, of
course, be blurted out anyhow. It had to grow out
of circumstances. It, of course, must be given.
She had not yet given it. But haste must be avoided.
For its particular type, as long a time as possible
must be allowed to elapse before she spoke of what
had happened. It must almost seem as though she
were going to say nothing ; sudden, perfect, and
very impressive silence on her part. To accustom
their minds to her silence would make speech all
the more imposing, when it came. At a caf6 after
the dance her account of the thing flowered grudgingly,
drawn forth by the ambient heat of the discussion.
They were as yet at the stage of exclamations, no
malveillant theory yet having been definitely formed
about Kreisler.
" He came there on purpose to create a disturbance.
Whatever for, I wonder ! "
" I expect it was the case of Fraulein Fogs over
again." (Kreisler had, on a former occasion, paid
his court to a lady of this name, with resounding
unsuccess.)
" If I'd have known what was going on, I'd have
dealt with him ! " said one of the men.
" Didn't you say he told a pack of lies, Ben6e ? "
Fraulein Lipmann had been sitting, her eyes fixed
on a tram drawn up near by, watching the people
evacuating the central platform, and others re-
stocking it. The discussion and exclamations of her
friends did not, it would appear, interest her. It
would have been, no doubt, scandalously unnatural
if Kreisler had not been execrated. But anything
they could say was negligible and inadequate to cope
with the " Gemeine alte Sau." The tameness of
their reflections on and indignation against Kreisler
when compared with the terrific corroding of this
epithet (known only to her) made her sulky and
impatient.
Applied to in this way directly about the lies, she
160
turned to the others and said, as it were interposing
herself regally at last in their discussion :
11 Ecoutez — listen," she began, leaning towards the
greater number of them, seeming to say, " It's really
simple enough, as simple as it is disagreeable : I am
going to settle the question for you. Let us then
discuss it no more." It would seem a great effort
to do this, too, her lips a little white with fatigue,
her eyes heavy with disgust at it all : fighting these
things, she was coming to their assistance.
" Listen : we none of us know anything about
that man " ; this was an unfortunate beginning for
Bertha, as thoughts, if not eyes, would spring in her
direction no doubt, and Fraulein Lipmann even
paused as though about to qualify this : " we none
of us, I think, want to know anything about him.
Therefore why this idiot — the last sort of beer-
drinking brute — treated us to his bestial and — and —
wretched foolery "
Fraulein Lipmann shrugged her shoulders with
blank, contemptuous indifference. " I assure you it
doesn't interest me the least little bit in the world
to know ivhy such brutes behave like that at certain
times. I don't see any mystery. It seems odd to
you that Hekr Kkeisler should be an offensive
brute ? " She eyed them a moment. " To me not ! "
11 We do him too much honour by discussing him,
that's certain," said one of them. This was in the
spirit of Fraulein Lipmann's words, but was not
/accepted by her just then as she had something further
to say.
" When one is attacked, one does not spend one's
time in considering why one is attacked, but in
defending oneself. I am just fresh from the souillures
de ce brute. If you knew the words he had addressed
to me ! "
Ekhart was getting very red, his eyes were shining,
and he was moving rhythmically in his chair something
like a steadily rising sea.
" Where does he live, Fraulein Lipmann ! " he
asked.
161 L
"Nein, Ekhart. One could not allow anybody
to embroil themselves with that useless brute." The
11 Nein, Ekhart " had been drawled fondly at once,
as though that contingency had been weighed, and
could be brushed aside lightly in advance. It implied
as well an "of course " for his red and dutiful face.
" I myself, if I meet him anywhere, shall deal with
him better than you could. This is one of the occa-
sions for a woman "
So Bertha's story had come uncomfortably and
difficultly to flower. She wished she had not waited
so long. But it was impossible now, the matter put
in the light that Fraulein Lipmann's intervention had
caused, to delay any longer. She was, there was no
doubt about it, vaguely responsible for Kreisler. It
was obviously her duty to explain him. And now
Fraulein Lipmann had just put an embargo on
explanations. There were to be no more explanations.
In Kreisleriana her apport was very important :
much more definite than the indignation or hypothesis
of any of the rest. She had been nearer to him,
anyway. She had waited too long, until the sea
had risen too high, or rather in a direction extremely
unfavourable for launching her contribution. It must
be in some way, too, a defence of Kreisler. This
would be a very delicate matter to handle.
Yet could she sit on there, say nothing, and let
the others in the course of time drop the subject 1
They had not turned to her in any way for further
information or as to one peculiarly susceptible of
furnishing interesting data. Maintaining this silence
was a solution. But it would be even bolder than her
first plan. This would be a still more vigorous,
more insolent development of her plan of confessing —
in Tier way. But it rather daunted her. They might
easily mistake, if they pleased, her silence for the
silence of acknowledged, very eccentric, guilt. The
subject was drawing perilously near the point where
it would be dropped. Fraulein Lipmann was sum-
ming up, and doing the final offices of the law over
the condemned and already unspeakable Kreisler.
162
No time was to be lost. The breaking in now involved
inevitable conflict of a sort with Fraulein Lipmann.
She was going to " say a word for Kreisler " after
Fraulein Lipmann's words. (How much better it would
have been before !)
So at this point, looking up from the table, Bertha
(listened to with uncomfortable unanimity and
promptness) began. She was smiling with an affec-
tedly hesitating, timid face, smiling in a flat strained
way, the neighbourhood of her eyes suffused slightly
with blood, her lips purring the words a little :
" Eenee, I feel that I ought to say something — "
Her smile was that made with a screwing up of the
eyes and slow flowering of the lips, noticed on some
people's faces when some snobbery they cannot help
has to be allowed egress from their mouth.
Ben6e Lipmann turned towards her composedly.
This interruption would require argument ; con-
sciousness of the peculiar nature of Bertha's qualifi-
cations was not displayed.
11 1 had not meant to say anything — about what
happened to me, that is. I, as a matter of fact,
have something particularly to complain of. But
I had nothing to say about it. Only, since you are
all discussing it, I thought you might not quite
understand if I didn't — I don't think, Een6e, that
Herr Kreisler was quite in his right mind this evening.
He doesn't strike me as mediant. I don't think he
was really in any way accountable for his actions.
I don't, of course, know any more about him than
you do. This evening was the first time I've ever
exchanged more than a dozen words with him in
my life."
This was said in the sing-song of quick parentheses,
eyebrows lifted, and with little gestures of the hand.
11 He caught hold of me — like this." She made a
quick snatching gesture at Fraulein Lipmann, who did
not like this attempt at intimidation or velvety
defiance. " He was kissing me when you came up,"
turning to one or two of the others. This was said
with dramatic suddenness and " determination," as
163
it were : the " kissing " said with a sort of deliberate
sententious brutality, and luscious disparting of the
lips.
"We couldn't make out whatever was happen-
ing " one of them began.
" When you came up I felt quite dazed. I didn't
feel that it was a man kissing me. He was mad. I'm
sure he was. It was like being mauled by a brute."
She shuddered, with rather rolling eyes. " He was
a brute to-night — not a man at all. He didn't know
what he was doing."
They were all silent, answerless at this unexpected
view of the case. It only differed from theirs in
supposing that he was not always a brute. She had
spoken quickly and drew up short. Their silence
became conscious and septic. They appeared as
though they had not expected her to stop speaking,
and were like people surprised naked, with no time
to cover themselves.
" I think he's in great difficulties — money or some-
thing. But all I know for certain is that he was really
in need of somebody "
" But what makes you think, Bertha " one of
the girls said, hesitating.
" I let him in at Benee's. He looked strange to
me : didn't you notice ? I noticed him first
there."
Anastasya Vasek was still with them. She had
not joined in the talk about Kreisler. She listened
to it with attention, like a person newly arrived in
some community, participating for the first time at
one of their discussions on a local and stock subject.
Kreisler would, from her expression, have seemed to
be some topic peculiar to this gathering of people
they engaged in a characteristic occupation. Bertha
she watched as one would watch a very eloquent chief
airing his views at a clan-meeting.
11 1 felt he was really in need of some hand to help
him. He seemed just like a child. He was ill, too.
He can't have eaten anything for some time. I am
sure he hasn't. He was walking slower and slower —
164
that's how it was we were so far behind. It was my
fault, too — what happened. At least "
The hungry touch was an invention of the moment.
" You make him quite a romantic character. I'm
afraid he has been working on your feelings, my
dear girl. I didn't see any signs of an empty stomach
myself," said Fraulein van Bencke.
" He refreshed himself extensively at the dance,
in any case. You can put your mind at rest as to
his present emptiness," Eenee Lipmann said.
Things languished. The Lipmann had taken her
stand on boredom. She was committed to the theory
of the unworthiness of this discussion. The others
not feeling quite safe, Bertha's speeches raised no more
comment. It was all as though she had been putting
in her little bit of abuse of the common enemy.
Bertha might have interrupted with a " Yes. He
outraged me too ! " — and this have been met with
a dreary, acquiescing silence !
She was exculpating herself, then (heavily), at his
expense. The air of ungenerosity this had was
displeasing to her.
The certain lowering of the vitality of the party
when she came on the scene with her story offended
her. There should have been noise. It was not
quite the lifelessness of scepticism. But there was
an uncomfortable family likeness to the manner of
people listening to discourses they do not believe.
She persevered. She met with the same objectionable
flaccid and indifferent opposition. Her intervention
had killed the topic, and they seemed waiting till
she had ended her war-dance on its corpse.
The red-headed member of the party had met
Tarr by chance. Hearing he had not seen Bertha
since the night of the ball, she had said with roguish
pleasantness : " He'd better look after her better ;
why hadn't he come to the ball ? " Tarr did not
understand.
" Bertha had had an adventure. All of them, for
that matter, had had an adventure, but especially
Bertha. Oh, Bertha would tell him all about it."
165
But, on Tarr insisting, Bertha's story, in substance,
had been told.
So Avith Bertha, the fact was still there. Betro-
spectively, her friends insisted upon passing by the
two remarkably unanimous -looking forms on the
boulevard in stony silence. She shouted to them and
kissed Kreisler loudly. But they refused to take
any notice. She sulked. They had been guilty of
catching her. She kept to herself day after day.
She would make a change in her life. She might go
to Germany ; she might go to another quartier. To
go on with her life just as though nothing had hap-
pened, that was out of the question. Demonstration
of some sort must follow, and change compatible with
grief.
Her burly little clock struck four. Hurrying on
reform -clothes, she went out to buy lunch. The
dairy lay nearly next door to Lejeune's restaurant.
Crossing the road towards it, she caught sight of
Kreisler's steadily marching figure approaching.
First she side-stepped and half turned. But the
shop would be reached before they met, so she went
on, merely quickening her pace. Her eye, covertly
fixed on him, calculating distances and speeds, saw
him hesitate — evidently having just caught sight of
her — and then turn down a side street nearly beside
the dairy she was making for. Unwise pique beset
her at this.
CHAPTEE V
Kreisler, on his side, had been only a few paces
from his door when he caught sight of Bertha. As
his changed route would necessitate a good deal
of tiresome circling to bring him back practically to
the spot he had started from, he right-about-faced
in a minute or two, the danger past, as he thought.
The result was that, as she left the shop, there was
Kreisler approaching again, almost in the same place
as before.
166
She was greeted affably, as though to say " Caught !
both of us ! " He was under the impression, however,
that she had lain in wait for him. He was so accus-
tomed to think of her in that character ! If she had
been in full flight he would have imagined that she
was only decoying him. She was a woman who
could not help adhering.
11 How do you do ? I've just been buying my
lunch."
" So late ? "
" I thought you'd left Paris ! " She had no infor-
mation of this sort, but was inclined to rebuke him
for not leaving Paris.
" I ? Who told you that, I should like to know.
I shall never leave Paris ; at least "
There was heavy enigmatic meaning in this, said
lightly. It did not escape her, sensible to such
nuances.
" How are our fair friends ? " he asked.
" Our ? Oh, Fraulein Lipmann and — Oh, I
haven't seen them since the other night."
" Indeed ! Not since the other night ! "
She made her silence swarm with significant mean-
ings, like a glassy shoal with innumerable fish : her
eyes even, stared and darted about, glassily.
It was very difficult, now she had stopped, to get
away. The part she had more or less played with
her friends, of his champion, had imposed itself on
her. She could not leave her prot6g6 without some-
thing further said. She was flattered, too, at his
showing no signs now of desire to escape.
His more plainly brutal instincts woke readily in
these vague days. Various appetites had been
asserting themselves. So the fact that she was a
pretty girl did its work on a rather recalcitrant
subject. He felt so modest now, ideals things of the
past. Surely for a quiet ordinary existence pleasant
little distinctions were suitable ?
Without any anxiety about it, he began to talk to
Bertha with the idea of a subsequent meeting. He
had wished to avoid her because she had embodied
167
for him the evening of the dance, and appeared to
him in its disquieting colours. What he sought
unconsciously now was a certain quietude, enlivened
by healthy appetites. He had disconnected her with
his great Night.
" I was cracked the other night. I'm not often in
that state," he said. Bertha's innuendoes had to be
recognized.
" I'm glad of that," she answered.
As to Bertha, to have been kissed and those things,
under however eccentric circumstances, gave a man
certain rights on your interest.
" I'm afraid I was rather rude to Fraulein Lipmann
before leaving. Did she tell you about it ? "
" I think you were rude to everybody ! "
-Ah, well "
I must be going. My lunch-
" Oh, I'm so sorry ! Have I kept you from your
lunch ? I wonder if you would procure me the
extreme pleasure of seeing you again ? "
Bertha looked at him in doubtful astonishment,
taking in this sensational request.
See Kreisler again ! The result as regards the
Lipmann circle ! But this pleaded for Kreisler. It
would be carrying out her story. It would be
insisting on it, and destroying that subtle advantage,
now possessed by her friends, in presenting them with
somewhat the same uncompromising spectacle again.
In deliberately exposing herself to criticism she would
be effacing, in some sense, the extreme involuntariness
of the boulevard incident. He asked her simply if
he might see her again. The least pretentious
request. Would the refusal to do this simple thing
be a concession to Lipmann and the rest ? Did she
want to at all ? But it was in a jump of deliberate
defiance or " carelessness " that she concluded :
" Yes, of course, if you wish it."
" You never go to cafes ? Perhaps some day "
" Good ! Very well ! " she answered very quickly,
in her trenchant tone, imparting all sorts of particular
unnecessary meanings to this simple acceptance. She
168
had answered as men accept a bet or the Bretons
clinch a bargain in the fist.
Kreisler was still leisurely. He appeared to regard
her vehemence with amusement.
11 1 should like then to go with you to the Cafe de
l'Observatoire to-morrow evening. I hope I shall be
able to efface the rather unusual impression I must
have made on you the other night!" (The tone of
this remark did not ignore or condemn, however, the
kisses.) " When can I meet you ? "
" Will you come and fetch me at my house ? "
But shivers went down her back as she said it.
She was now thoroughly committed to this new
step. She was delighted, or rather excited, at each
new further phase of it. Its horrors were scores off
her friends. These details of meeting ! — these had
not been reckoned on. Of course they would have
to meet. Kreisler seemed like a physician conducting
a little unpleasant operation in a genial, ironical,
unhurrying way.
11 Well, it's understood. We shall see each other
to-morrow," he said. And with a smile of half
raillery at her rather upset expression, he left her.
So much fuss about a little thing, such obstinacy in
doing it ! What was the terrible thing ? Meeting
him ! His smiling was only natural. She showed
without disguise in her face the hazardous quality, as
she considered it, of this consent. She would wish
him to feel the largeness of the motive that prompted
her, and for him to participate too in the certain
horror of meeting himself !
CHAPTEE VI
Back in her rooms, she examined, over her lunch,
with stupefaction, the things she had been doing —
conversations, appointments, complementary sensa-
tions, and all the rest, as she might have sat down
before some distinctly expensive, troubling purchase
169
that she had not dreamt of making an hour before.
" What a strange proceeding ! " — as it might have
been — " what sudden disease in my taste made me
buy that ! "
Had she been enveloped, in a way, by that idle
Teutonically smiling manner of his ? But at the
bottom of her (for her) dramatic consent was the
instantaneous image of Fraulein Lipmann and Com-
pany's disapprobation. The carrying out and so
substantiating her story, that notion turned the
scale. Kreisler's easy manner (he was unmistakably
" a gentleman ! "j contrasted with her friend's
indignant palaver gave him the advantage. He
cannot, cannot have behaved so outrageously as they
pretended !
These activities as well distracted her from brooding
over Sorbert's going.
Of Kreisler she thought very little. Her women
friends held the centre of the stage.
In her thoughts they stared at her supersession :
Tarr to Kreisler. From bad to worse, for her friends.
There was a strange continuity in her troubled
friendship with these women. Always (only more so)
at the same point, stretching the cord.
So this was the key to her programme ; a person
has made some slip in grammar, say. He makes it
again deliberately, so that his first involuntary speech
may appear deliberate.
She began her customary pottering about in her
rooms. Fraulein Elsa Kinderbach, one of the Dresden
sisters already spoken of, interrupted her. At the
knock she thought of Tarr and Kreisler simultaneously,
and welded in one.
" Isn't it hot ? It's simply broiling outside. I left
the studio quite early." Fraulein Kinderbach sat
down, giving her hat a toss and squinting up at it.
The most evident thing about these sisters was
dirt, anaemia, and a sort of soiled, insignificant hand-
someness. They explained themselves, roughly, by
describing in a cold-blooded lazy way their life at
home.
170
A stepmother, prodigiously smart, well-to-do,
neglecting them ; sent first to one place then another
(now Paris) to be out of the way. Yet the step-
mother supplies them superfluously from her super-
fluity. — They talked about themselves with a con-
sciously dramatic matter-of-factness, as twin parcels,
usually on the way from one place to another,
expensively posted here and there, without real
destination. They enjoyed nothing at all ; painted
well (according to Juan Soler) ; had a sort of wild
uncontrollable attachment for the Lipmann.
" Oh ! Bertha, I didn't know your dear ' Sorbert '
was going to England." "Dein Sorbet" was the
bantering formula for Tarr. Bertha was perpetually
talking about him, to them, to the charwoman, to
the greengrocer opposite, to everybody she met.
Tarr did not quite bask in this notoriety.
" Didn't you ? Oh, yes ; he's gone."
" You've not quarrelled — with your Sorbert ? "
" What's that to do with you, my dear f " Bertha
gave a brief, indecent laugh she sometimes had. " By
the way, I've just seen Herr Kreisler. We've
arranged to go out somewhere to-morrow."
" Go out — Kreisler ! Liebes Kind ! — What on earth
possessed you — ! — Herr — Kreisler ! "
11 What's the matter with Herr Kreisler ? You
were -all friendly enough with him a week ago."
Elsa looked at her with the cold-blooded scrutiny
of the precocious urchin.
" But he's a vicious brute. Besides, there are
other reasons for avoiding Herr Kreisler. You know
the reason of his behaviour the other night ? It was
it appears, because Anastasya Vasek snubbed him.
He was nearly the same when the Fogs wouldn't take
an interest in him. He can't leave women alone.
He follows them about and annoys them, and then
becomes — well, as you saw him the other night —
when he's shaken off. He is impossible. He is not
a person who can be accepted by anybody."
" Where did you hear all that ? I don't think that
Fraulein Vasek's story is true. I am certain "
171
" Well, he once was like that with me, He began
hanging round, and — You know the story of his
engagement ? "
" What engagement ? "
" He was engaged to a girl and she married his
father instead of marrying him."
Bertha struggled a moment, a little baffled.
" Well, what is there in that ? I've known several
cases "
Yes. That by itself-
Elsa Kinderbach was quite undisturbed. Her
information had been coldly given. She had argued
sweepingly, as though talking to a child, and following
some reasonable resolve formed during her earlier
silent scrutiny. — In a few moments Bertha returned
to the charge.
" Did Fraulein Vasek give that particular explana-
tion of Herr Kreisler's behaviour ? "
"No. We put two and two together. She did
say something — yes, she did as a matter of fact say
that she thought she had been the cause of Kreisler's
behaviour."
" How funny ! I can't stand that girl ; she's so
unnatural, she's such a poseuse. Don't you think,
Elsa ? — What a funny thing to say ? You can
depend on it that that, anyhow, is not the explana-
tion."
" Sorbert has a rival perhaps ? "
This remark was met in staring silence. It was a
mixing of elements, an unnecessary bringing in of
something as unapropos, as unmanageable; that
deserved only no words at all. She did not wish to
concede the light tone required.
Elsa had admitted that Fraulein Vasek was respon-
sible for the statement, " I was the cause of Kreisler's
behaviour," etc. That was one of those things (there
being no evidence to confirm or even suggest it)
which at once puts a woman on a peculiar pinnacle
of bad taste, incomprehensibleness, and horridness.
Bertha's personal estimation of Kreisler received a
complex fillip. This ridiculous version — coming after
172
her version— was a rival version, believed in by her
friends.
- Bertha took some minutes to digest Elsa's news.
She flushed. The more she thought of this rivai
version of Fraulein Vasek's, the more reprehensible it
appeared. It was a startlingly novel and uncom-
promising version, giving proof of a perfect immodesty.
It charged hers full tilt.
This version of hers had been the great asset of
existence for three days. Some one had coolly set
up shop next door, to sell an article in which she, and
she alone, had specialized. Here was an unexpected,
gratuitous, new inventor of versions coming along.
And what a version to begin with !
Bertha's version had been a vital matter, Fraulein
Vasek's evidently was a matter of vanity. The
contempt of the workman, sweating for a living, for
the amateur, possessed her.
But there was a graver aspect to the version of
this poaching Venus. In discrediting Bertha's sug-
gested account of how things happened, it attacked
indirectly her action, proceeding, ostensibly, from
these notions.
Her meeting Kreisler at present depended for its
reasonableness and existence even on the " hunger "
theory ; or, if that should fail, something equally
touching and primitive. Were she forced, as Elsa
readily did, to accept the snub-by -Anastasya theory,
with its tale of ridiculous reprisals, further dealings with
Kreisler would show in a bare and ugly light. Her past
conduct also would have its primitive slur renewed.
Her defiance to Elsa had been delivered with great
satisfaction. " I am meeting Herr Kreisler to-
morrow ! " The shine had soon been taken off that.
All Bertha's past management [of the boulevard
scene had presupposed that she was working in an
element destined to obscurity : malleable, therefore,
to any extent. Anastasya had risen up calm, contra-
dictory, a formidable and perplexing enemy, with her
cursed version. The weak point in it was the rank
immodesty of the form itftook.
173
Her obstinacy awoke. This new turn coming from
the other camp solidified two or three degrees more,
in a twinkling, her partisanship of Kreisler. She had
a direct interest now in their meeting. She was
curious to hear what he had to say as to his alleged
attempt in Fraulein Vasek's direction.
" Well, I'm going to Ben^e's now, to fetch her for
dinner. Are you coming ? " Elsa said, getting up.
" No. I'm going to dine here to-night," and
Bertha accompanied her to the door.
CHAPTEE VII
People appear with a startling suddenness sometimes
out of the fog of Time and Space. Bertha did not
visualize Kreisler very readily. She was surprised
when she saw him below her windows the next day.
He stared up at the house with an eager speculation.
He considered the house and studio opposite. Behind
the curtains Bertha stood with emotions of an
ambushed soldier. She felt on her face the blankness
of the wall of the house, its silence and unresponsive-
ness. He appeared almost to be looking at her face,
magnified and exposed. — Then it appeared to her
that it was he, the enemy getting in. She wished to
stop him there, before he came any further.
In the processes of his uncertainty he was so
innocuous and distant, for the moment. His first
visit. There he was : so far, a stranger. Why
should these little obstacles of strangeness — which
gate to enter, which bell to ring — be taken away from
this particular individual f He should remain
" stranger " for her, where he came from. But he
had burrowed his way through, was at the bell already,
and would soon be at herself. She found here, in her
room, was very different from she found outside, in
restaurant or street. The clothing of this decor was
a nakedness.
She struggled for a moment up from the obstinate
174
dream, made of artificial but tenacious sentiments,
shaped by contretemps of all sorts that had been
accumulating like a snowball ever since her last
interview with Tarr. Still somewhat wrapt in this
interview she rolled in its nightmarish, continually
metamorphosed, substance through space. Where
would it land her, this electric, directionless, vital
affair ? This invasion of Indifference and Difference
had floated her, successfully, away in some direction.
The bell rang again. She could see him, almost,
through the wall, standing phlegmatic and erect.
They had not spoken yet. But they had been some
minutes " in touch."
Perhaps he was mad ! Elsa, cold, matter-of-fact,
but with warnings for her, came into her mind.
However much she resisted the facts, there was very
little reason for this meeting. It was a now unneces-
sary, exploded, and objectless impulse, sapped by
Anastasya. She was going through with something
from laziness and obstinacy mixed, that no longer
meant anything.
Already dressed, she walked to the door as the bell
rang a third time. Kreisler was serious and a little
haggard ; different from the day before. He had
expected to be asked in. Instead, hardly saying
anything, she came out on the narrow landing and
closed the door behind her. Surprised, he felt for
the first stair. It was eight in the evening, very
dark on the staircase, and he stumbled several times.
Bertha felt she could not say a single word to him.
It was just as though some lawyer's clerk had come
to fetch her for a tragic disagreeable interview, and
she, having been sitting fully dressed for unnecessary
hours in advance, were now urging him silently and
violently before her, following.
That afternoon she had received a second letter
from Sorbert.
" My dear Bertha. — Excuse me for the blague I
wrote the other day. There is nothing to be gained
in conforming to our old convention of vagueness. I
175
think we had better say, finally, that we will try and
get used to not seeing each other, and give up our
idea of marriage. Do you agree with me ? As you
will see, I am still here, in Paris. I am going to
England this afternoon.
" Tou jours affectueusement,
" Votre Sorbert."
On the receipt of this letter — as on the former
occasion a little — she first of all behaved as she would
have done had Sorbert been there. She acted silent
resignation and going about her work as usual for
the benefit of the letter, as though it had been a
living person. The reply to this, written an hour or
so before Kreisler arrived, had been an exaggerated
acquiescence. " Of course, Sorbert : far better that
we should part ! " But soon this letter began to
worry her and threaten her mannerisms. She was
just going to take up a book and read, when, as
though something had called her attention, she put
it down, got up, her head turned over her shoulder,
and then suddenly flung herself on the sofa as though
it had been rocks and she plunging on them from a
high cliff. She sobbed until she had tired herself out.
So Kreisler and she walked up the street as though
compelled by some very strange circumstances, only,
to be in each other's company.
He appeared depressed, and to have come also
under the spell of some sort of meaningless duty. His
punctuality suggested, too, fatigued and senseless
waiting, careful timing. His temporary destination
reached, he delivered himself up indifferently into
her hands. He said something about its being hot.
They said hardly anything, but walked on away from
her house. They showed no pudeur about this peculiar
state of mind and their manners.
Before they got to the Cafe de FObservatoire
Kreisler was attempting to make up for his lapse into
strangeness, discovering, however, in a little, that he
had not been alone.
176
Bertha looked at the clock inside as they took up
their place on the quieter terrasse. When she
asked herself how long she would stop she was
astonished.
" Who is that, then ? " Kreisler asked, after some
moments of gradually changing silence, when Anas-
tasya began to be mentioned by Bertha. He showed
no interest.
This meeting had been the only event of the day
for him. He had looked forward to it a little at first.
But as it approached he got fidgety, began counting
the time, and from being a blessed something, it
became a burden. The responsibility of this meeting
even seemed too much for him. He began to ask
himself what useless errand he was on now ? The
effort of this simple affair worked lamentably on his
nerves. He would not have gone, only the appoint-
ment being made and fixed in his mind, and he having
felt it in the distance all day, he knew it would irk
him more if he did not go. He was compelled, in
short, to go, to have done with it. The worrying
obsession of not having done it intimidated him. In
the empty evening he would have been at the mercy
of this thing-not-done, like an itch.
Bertha, for her part, recovered. Kreisler's com-
plete abstraction and indifference were soothing. He
seemed to know as little why he was there as she, or
less, and be only waiting for her to disappear again.
No , slight was implied. Her vanity stirred a little.
She perhaps came through this to bring Fraulein
Vasek on the boards as she had originally intended.
As to there being anything compromising in this
meeting, that might be disposed of. He did not look
like suggesting another. — His manner on the day
before would not have warranted complete calm.
And Elsa's description of his conduct with women
had stuck in her mind. As the hour of meeting
approached it helped her uneasiness. But now she
felt refreshingly relieved. This was the man who
had caused her fresh misgivings ! When a dog or
cow has passed a trembling child without any signs
177 M
of mischief, the child sometimes is inclined to step
after it and put forth a caressing hand.
By his manner and its reflection on her feelings he
had created a situation not unlike that of the dance
night. There they sat, she pressing a little, he
civilly apathetic. It seemed for all the world as
though Bertha had run after him somewhere and
forced a meeting on him, to which he had grudgingly
come. She was back in what would always be for
him her characteristic role. And so now — and again
later continually — she appeared to be following him
up, to the discomfort of both, for some unguessable
reason.
" No, I don't know who you mean," he said,
replying to descriptions of Anastasya. " A tall girl
you say ? No, I can't bring to mind "
He liked fingering over listlessly the thought of
Anastasya, but as a stranger. This subject gave
him a little more interest in Bertha, just as, for her, it
had a similar effect in his favour. She was imme-
diately convinced that Fraulein Vasek had been
guilty of the most offensive, self-complacent mistake.
Kreisler had not energy enough left to continue his
pursuit of his bespangled dream.
Bertha now had achieved a simplification of the
whole matter as follows :
Anastasya, a beautiful and swankily original girl,
had arrived, bespangled and beposed, on the scene of
her (Bertha's) simple little life. She had discovered
her kissing and being kissed by a ridiculous individual
in the middle of the street. Bertha had disengaged •
herself rapidly, and explained that she had been
doing that because he had awoken her pity by his
miserable and half-starved appearance ; that, even
then, he had assaulted her, and she had been found
in that delicate situation entirely independent of her
own will. Anastasya' s lip had curled, and she had
received these explanations in silence. Then, at their
nervous repetition, she had said negligently : " You
were no doubt being hugged by Herr Kreisler in the
middle of the pavement, the motives the ordinary
178
ones. You might have waited till — But that*s
your own business. On the other hand, the reason
of his eccentric appearance this evening was this. He
had the incredible impudence to wish to make up to
me. I sent him about his business, and he ' mani-
fested ' in the way you know."
Eeducing all the confused material of this affair
to such essential situation, Bertha saw clearly the
essence of her action.
Definite withdrawal from the circle of her friends
was now essential. It was accomplished with as
much style as possible. Kreisler provided the style.
Her instinct now was to wallow still more in the
unbecoming situation in which she had been found,
with defiance. She wanted to be seen with Kreisler.
The meanness, strangeness, and certain decheance or
come-down, in consorting with this sorry bird, must
be heightened into poetry and thick and luscious
fiction. They had driven her to this. They were
driving her ! Very well. She was lasse ! She
would satisfy them. She would satisfy Sorbert. It
was what he wanted, was it not ?
Kreisler, of course, was the central, irreducible
element in this mental pie. He was the egg-cup that
kept up the crust. She tried to interest herself in
Kreisler and satisfy Tarr, her friends, the whole world,
more thoroughly.
CHAPTEE VIII
Destiny has more power over the superstitious.
They attract constantly bright fortunes and disasters
within their circle. Destiny had laid its trap in the
unconscious Kreisler. It fixed it with powerful
violent springs. Eight days later (dating from
the Observatoire meeting), it snapped down on
Bertha.
Kreisler's windows had been incandescent with
steady saffron rays, coming over the roofs of the
179
quarter. His little shell of a room had breasted them
with pretence of antique adventure. The old bound-
less yellow lights streamed from their abstract
El Dorado. They were a Gulf Stream for our little
patch of a world, making a people as quiet as the
English. Men once more were invited to be the
motes in the sunbeam, to play in the sleepy surf on the
edge of remoteness.
Now, from within, his windows looked as suddenly
harsh and familiar. Unreasonable limitation gave
its specific colour to thin glass.
The clock was striking eight. Like eight metallic
glittering waves dashing discordantly together in a
cavern, its strokes rushed up and down in Bertha's
head. She was leaning on the mantelshelf, head
sunk forward, with the action of a person about to be
sick. She had struggled up from the bed a moment
before — the last vigour at her disposal being spent in
getting away from the bed at all costs.
" Oh schwein ! schwein ! Ich hass es — ich hass
dich ! Schwein ! Schensal ! schensslicher Mensch ! "
All the hatred and repulsion of her being, in a raw,
indecent heat, seemed turned into this tearful sonority,
gushing up like blood. An exasperated falling,
deepening singsong in the " schensslicher Mensch ! "
something of the disgusting sound of the brutal
relishing and gobbling of food. Hatred expresses
itself like the satisfaction of an appetite. The outrage
was spat out of her body on to him. As she stood
there she looked like some one on whom a practical
joke had been played, of the primitive and physical
order, such as drenching, in some amusing manner,
with dirty water. She had been decoyed into
swallowing something disgusting. Her attitude was
reminiscent of the way people are seen to stand bent
awkwardly forward, neck craned out, slowly wiping
the dirt off their clothes, or spitting out the remains of
their polluted drink, cursing the joker.
This had been, too, a desperate practical joke in its
madness and inconsequence. But it was of the
solemn and lonely order. At its consummation there
180
had been no chorus of intelligible laughter. An
uncontrolled Satyr-like figure had leapt suddenly
away : Bertha, in a struggle that had been out-
rageous and extreme, fighting with the silence of
a confederate beneath the same ban of the world. A
joke too deep for laughter, parodying the phrase,
alienating sorrow and tears, had been achieved. The
victim had been conscious of an eeriness.
A folded blouse lay on the corner of Kreisler's
trunk. Bertha's arms and shoulders were bare, her
hair hanging in wisps and strips, generally — a Salon
picture was the result. For purposes of work (he had
asked her to sit for him), the blouse had been put
aside. A jagged tear in her chemise over her right
breast also seemed the doing of a Salon artist of facile
and commercial invention.
Kreisler stood at the window. His eyes had a lazy,
expressionless stare, his lips were open. Nerves
brain and the whole body were still spinning and
stunned, his muscles teeming with actions not
finished, sharp, when the actions finished. He was
still swamped and strung with violence. His sudden
immobility, as he stood there, made the riot of move-
ment and will rise to his brain like wine from a weak
body. Satisfaction had, however, stilled everything
except this tingling prolongation of action.
The inanity of what had happened to her showed as
her unique, intelligible feeling. Her being there at
all, her eccentric conduct of the last week, what
disgusting folly ! Ever since she had known Tarr, her
11 sentiment " had been castigating her. A watchful
fate appeared to be inventing morals to show her the
folly of her perpetual romancing. And now this had
happened. It was senseless. There was not a single
atom of compensation anywhere. She was not one
of those who, were there any solid compensation of
sentiment and necessity (such as, in the most evident
degree, was the case with Tarr), would draw back
from natural conclusions. Then conclusive physical
matters were a culmination of her romance, and not a
separate and disloyal gratification. It never occurred
181
to her that they could be arrived at without traversing
the romance.
Was this to be explained as the boulevard incident
had been explained by her ? Was she to proceed with
her explanations and her part ? But this time it
would be to herself that the explanations would have
to be made. That was a different audience ; a dim
feeling found its way into her, with a sort of sickening
malice. She had a glimpse too of Kreisler's Bertha —
the woman that you couldn't shake off, who, for some
unimaginable reason, was always hanging on to you.
She even had the strength to admit, distantly, the
logic of this act — what had happened to her — still
more disgusting and hateful than its illogic. The
only thing that might have been found to mitigate,
in some sense, the dreary, sudden madness of it, was
that she felt practically nothing at all for Kreisler.
It was like some violent accident of the high road, the
brutality of a tramp. And — as that too would — it
partook of the unreality of nightmare.
A few minutes before he had been tranquilly working
away at a drawing, she sitting in some pose she had
taken up with quick ostentatious intelligence. Startled
at his request to draw her shoulders she had imme-
diately condemned this feeling. She had come to sit
for him ; the mere idea that there was any danger
was so repulsive that she immediately consented.
He was an artist, too, of course. While he was
working they had not talked. Then he had put down
his paper and chalk, stretched, and said :
" Your arms are like bananas ! " A shiver of
warning had penetrated her at this. But still he was
an artist : it was natural — even inevitable — that he
should compare her arms to bananas.
" Oh ! I hope you've made a good drawing. May
I see ? " She intended to emphasize the reason of
this exposure.
He had got up, and before she knew what he was
doing caught hold of her above the elbow, chafing
her arm, saying :
" You have pins and needles, Fraulein ? " The
182
" Fraulein " used here had some disquieting sound.
She drew herself away, now serious and on the
.defence.
" No, thank you. Now I will put my blouse on, if
you have finished."
They had looked at each other uncertainly for a
moment, he with a flushed rather silly fixed smile.
She was afraid, somehow, to move away.
" Let me rub your arm." Then with the fury of a
man waking up to some insult, he had seized her.
Her tardy words, furious struggling and all her con-
tradictory emotions disappeared in the whirlpool
towards which they had, with a strange deliberateness
and yet aimlessness, been steering.
He was standing there at the window now as though
wishing to pretend that he had done nothing ; she
" had been dreaming things " merely. The long
silence and monotony of the posing had prepared
her for the strangeness now. It had been the other
extreme out of which she had been flung and into
which, at present, she was again flung. She saw side
by side and unconnected the silent figure drawing her
and the other one full of blindness and violence.
Then there were two other figures, one getting up
from the chair, yawning, and the present lazy one
at the window — four in all, that she could not bring
together somehow, each in a complete compartment
of time of its own. It would be impossible to make
the present idle figure at the window interest itself
in these others. A loathsome, senseless event, of no
meaning, naturally, to that figure there. It had
quietly, indifferently, talked : it had drawn : it had
suddenly flung itself upon her and taken her, and now
it was standing idly there. It could do all these
things. It appeared to her in a series of precipitate
states. It resembled in this a switchback, rising
slowly, in a steady insouciant way to the top of an
incline, and then plunging suddenly down the other.
Or a mastiff's head turning indolently for some
seconds and then snapping at a fly, detached again
the next moment. Her fury and animal hostility
183
did not last more than a few minutes. She had come
there, got what she did not expect, and now must go
away again. There was positively nothing more to
be said to Kreisler. She had spasmodic returns of
raging. They did not pass her dourly active mind.
There never had been anything to say to him. He was
a mad beast.
She now had to go away as though nothing had
happened. It was nothing. After all what did it
matter what became of her now ? Her body was of
little importance — ghosts of romantic consolations
here ! What was the good (seeing what she knew and
everything) of storming against this man % She saw
herself coming there that afternoon, talking with
amiable affectation of interest in his work, in him (in
him !), sitting for him ; a long, uninterrupted stream
of amiability, talk, suddenly the wild few minutes,
then the present ridiculous hush.
The moral, heavily, too heavily, driven in by her no
doubt German fate, found its mark in her mind.
What Tarr laughed at her for — that silly and vulgar
mush, was the cause of all this. Well !
She had done up her hair ; her hat was once more on
her head. She went towards the door, her face really
haggard, inevitable consciousness of drama too in it.
Kreisler turned round, went towards the door also,
unlocked it, let her pass without saying anything,
and, waiting a moment, closed it indifferently again.
She was let out as a workman would have been, who
had been there to mend a shutter or rectify a bolt.
CHAPTEE IX
Bertha made her way home in a roundabout fashion
to avoid the possibility of meeting any one she knew.
The streets were loftily ignorant of her affairs. Thin
walls dyked in affairs and happenings. Ha ha !
the importance of our actions ! Is it more than the
kissing of the bricks %
184
She came out with mixed feelings ; gratefulness
for the enormous indifference and ignorance flowing
all round us ; anger and astonishment at finding
herself walking away in this matter-of-fact manner ;
suffering at the fact that the customary street scene
would not mix with the obsession of her late experience.
No doubt Nature was secret enough. But not to
tell this experience of hers to anybody also would be
shutting her in with Kreisler, somehow for good.
She would never be able to escape the contamination
of that room of his. It was one of those things that
in some form one should be able to tell. She had a
growing wish to make it known at once somewhere,
in some shape.
That is, at bottom, she still was inclined to continue
things — dreams, fancies, explanations, sacrifices.
Would nothing cure her ? The first feeling that this
was finally the end of those things, that there was
nothing further to be said or thought, was modified.
She did not definitely think of telling any one — the
moral was wearing off more quickly than it should.
But the thought of this simple, unsensational walking
away and ending up of everything in connexion with
Kreisler irked her more and more. Anger revived
spasmodically. Kreisler, by doing this, had made an
absolute finishing with Kreisler perhaps impossible.
There was nobody now in any sense on her side, or
on whose side she could range herself. Kreisler had
added himself to the worrying list of her women
friends, Tarr, etc., in a disgusting, dumbfounding way,
the list of people preying on her mind and pushing
her to perpetual fuss, all sorts of explicative, defiant,
or other actions. She had stuck Kreisler up as a
" cause " against her friends. In a manner of his own,
he had betrayed her and placed himself beside her
friends. In any case, he had carried out in the fullest
fashion their estimate of him. In being virtuous a
libelled man can best attack his enemies ; in being
" blackguardly," awaken a warmth of sympathy in
corroborating them. Kreisler had acted satanically
for her friends.
185
She had seen Elsa and her sister twice that week,
but none of the others. Ungregariousness, keeping
to herself, was explained by indisposition. Sorbert
was meant by this. Her continued seeing of Kreisler
was known to all now, and she could imagine their
reception of that news. Now she could hardly go on
talking about Kreisler. This would at once be
interpreted as " something having happened." So
more scandal against her name. In examining likeli-
hoods of the future she concluded that she would
have to break still more with her friends, to make up
for having to retire from her Kreisler positions. To
squash and counteract their satisfaction she must
accentuate her independence in their direction to
insult and contempt.
The last half-hour of senseless outrage still took
up all the canvas. Attempts to adjust her mind to a
situation containing such an element as this was
difficult. What could be done with it ? It took up
too much space. Everything must come back and
be referred to that. She wanted to tell this some-
where. This getting closed in with Kreisler — a
survival, perhaps, of her vivid fear of a little time
before, when he had locked the door, and she knew
that resisting him would be useless — must be at all
costs avoided.
Who could she tell ? Clara ? Madame Vannier ?
Once home, she lay down and cried for some time,
but without conjuring any of her trouble.
Kreisler seemed to have suddenly brought con-
fusion everywhere. There was nothing that would
quite fit in with that ridiculous, disgusting event.
He had even, in the end, driven her friends out of
her mind, too. She would have said nothing had one
turned up then.
Having left Kreisler so simply and undramatically
worried her. Something should have been done.
There would have been the natural relief. But her
direct human feelings of revenge had been paralysed.
She thought of going back at once to his room. She
could not begin life clearly again until something had
186
been done against him, or in some way where he
was.
- He had been treated by her as a cypher, as some-
thing vague to put up against her friends. All
along for the last week he had been a shadowy and
actually unimportant figure. He had shown no con-
sciousness of this. Rather dazed and machine-like
himself, Bertha had treated him as she had found him.
Suddenly, without any direct articulateness, he had
revenged himself as a machine might do, in a night-
mare. At a leap he was in the rigid foreground
of her life. He had absorbed all the rest in an
immense clashing wink. But the moment following
this " desperateness " he stood, abstracted, distant
and baffling as before. It was difficult to realize
he was there.
Tarr had been the real central and absorbing
figure all along, of course, but purposely veiled. He
had been as really all-important, though to all
appearance eliminated, as Kreisler had been of no
importance, though propped up in the foreground.
Sorbert at last could no longer be suppressed and kept
from coming forward now in her mind. But his
presence, too, was perplexing. She had become so
used to regarding him, though seeing him daily, as an
uncertain and departing figure, that now he had
really gone that did not make much difference. His
proceedings, a carefully prepared anaesthesia for
himself, had had its effect on her as well, serving
for both.
The bell rang. She stood up in one movement and
stared towards the door. She looked as though she
were waiting for the bell to ring two or three times to
find resolution in that, one way or the other. It
rang a second and third time. She did not know how
much persistence would draw her to the door. But
she knew that any definite show of energy would
overcome her. Was it Elsa ? She had lighted her
lamp, and her visitor could therefore have seen that
she was at home.
Bertha went to the door at length with affected
187
alacrity, in a pretence of not having heard the bell
before, and opened it sharply. Kreisler was there.
The opening of the door had been like the tearing of a
characterless mask off a face. Had he not been
looking at her through it all the time ? There did
not seem room for them where they were standing.
He looked to her like a great terrifying poster, cut
out on the melodramatic stairway. She remained
stone-still in front of him with a pinched expression,
as though about to burst out crying, and something
deprecating in her paralysed gesture, like a child.
There was an analogy to a laugh struck dead on a
child's face at a rebuff, souring and twisting all the
features.
Caricatured and enlarged to her eyes, she wanted
to laugh for a moment. The surprise was complete.
" What, what " Her mind formed his image,
rather like a man compelled to photograph a ghost.
Kreisler ! It was as though the world were made up
of various animals, each of a different kind and
physique even, and this were the animal Kreisler,
whose name alone conjured up certain peculiar
dangerous habits. A wild world, not of uniform men
and women, but of very divergent and strangely
living animals — Kreisler, Lipmann, Tarr. This man,
about to speak to her again, on the same square foot
of ground with her : he was not an apparition from
any remote Past, but from a Past almost a Present, a
half -hour old, much more startling. He had the too
raw and too new colours of an image hardly digested,
much less faded. When she had last seen him she
had been still in the sphere of an intense agitation.
His ominous and sudden appearance, so hardly out
of that, seemed to swallow up the space and time in
between. It was like the chilly return of a circling
storm. She had imagined that it depended on her to
see him or not, that he was pensive except when
persistently approached. But here he was, this
time, at last, following !
188
CHAPTEE X
He took a step forward, her room evidently his
destination.
" Mistvich ! " Bertha said, at the same time retreat-
ing into the passage-way. — " Go ! "
Got into the room, he did not seem to know what
next to do. So far he had been evidently quite clear
as to his purpose. He had been feeling the same
necessity as her — he, to see his victim. He had not
known what he wanted with her, but the obvious
pretext and road for the satisfaction of this impulse
was the seeking of pardon.
She had a moment before felt that she must see
him again, at once, before going further with her
life. — He, more vague but more energetic, had come
at the end of twenty minutes. They were now
together, quite tongue-tied. Once he was there, the
pretext appeared unnecessary. The real reason might
be found. The real reason no doubt was an intuition
not to lose her absolutely, the wisdom of his appetite
counselling.
He stood leaning on his cane, and staring in front
of him. — Bertha stood quite still, as she would some-
times do when a wasp entered the room, waiting to
see if it would blunder about and then fly out again.
He was a dangerous animal, he had got in there, and
might in the same manner go off again in a minute
or two.
Now was the chance she had been fretting for to
wipe out in some way what had happened ; — not to
seem, anyhow, to have taken it all as a matter of
course. — But it was too convenient. She had never
reckoned on his actually coming and putting himself
at her disposition in this way. He stood there
without saying anything, just as though he had been
sent for and it were for her to speak. — She would
have been inclined to send him back to his room, and
then, perhaps, go to Mm.
Constantly on the point of " throwing him out," as
189
her energetic German idiom put it, it yet evidently
would then, in the first place, be the same as before.
Secondly, she was a good deal intimidated by his
unexplained presence. She had a curiosity about
him, — curiosity rather as to how what had happened
to her could be straightened out or a little sense in
some way got into it. The material of this modifica-
tion was in him and only there. — She hated him
thoroughly now. But this new and distinct feeling
gave him at last some reality. — Her way of regarding
Kreisler was that of the girl a man " has got into
trouble," and to whom she looks to get her out of it.
So she stood, anxious as to what he might have .
come there to do, gradually settling down into a
" proud and silent indignation," behind which her
curiosity might wait and see what would transpire.
Kreisler had at length, having allowed her to stay
unexplained by his side for a week or so, divined
some complication. Her case might possibly be
similar to his ? She did not interest him any the
more for this. But communication would not be,
perhaps, absolutely useless.
His only possibility of action at present was to act
violently, in gusts. He did not know, when he began
an action, whether he would be able to go through
with it. — He could not now prevail upon himself to
go through the senseless form of apology or anything
else. He had got there, that would have to be
sufficient.
But the situation for Bertha became urgent, too.
The difficulty was that there was nothing adequate to
be done, that she could think of, in any way in pro-
portion to the enormity of the occasion. Yet, to
escape from the memory of Kreisler, what had
happened must be wiped out, checkmated, by some
action. She was still stunned and overwhelmed with
the normal feminine feelings proper to the case. But
yet even here there was an irregularity. Another
source of infinite discomfort was that she could not
even feel, as she should normally, the extent of the
outrage, although it was evident enough. She had
190
an hysterical inclination, in waves of astonishment, to
accept its paradoxical and persistent appearance.
This appearance Kreisler's peculiar manner, her own
present mind and the unexampled circumstances
gave it. It was nothing, — a bagatelle ! — Pooh ! it is
nothing, after all ! How can it be of any importance,
seeing that ? — This was one of those things that
seem to have got into the category of waking by
mistake. It had nothing to do with life's context.
And yet it was life. She must deal with it.
She had wished to free Sorbert. That had been
the beginning of all this. It was with idea of sacrifice
in her mind that she had committed the first folly on
the boulevard. — Well, she had succeeded. What did
Kreisler mean ? — At last his significance was as clear
as daylight. He meant always and everywhere merely
that she could never see Tarr again !
She now faced him with fresh strength, her face
illuminated with happy tragic resolve. — Supposing
she had given herself to a man to compass this sacri-
fice ? As it was, everything, except the hatefulness
and violence of the act, had been spared her. And in
telling Sorbert that there was something, now,
between them, she had been driven to something, she
would be nobly lying, and turning an involuntary act
into a voluntary one.
She could now, too, be tragically forbearing even
with Kreisler.
, " Herr Kreisler, I think I have waited long enough.
Will you please leave my room % "
He stirred gently like a heavy flower in a light
current of wind. But he turned towards her and said :
11 1 don't know what to say to you. — Is there
nothing I can do to make up to you — % I shall go
and shoot myself, Fraulein ! I cannot stand the
thought of what I have done ! "
This was perplexing and made her angry. He
appeared to possess a genius for making things
complicated and more difficult.
"All I ask you is to go. That will be the best
thing vou can do for me."
191
" Franlein, I can't ! — Do listen to me for a moment.
— I cannot even refer to what has happened without
insult in the mere direction of the words. — I am mad —
mad — mad ! — You have showed yourself a good
friend to me. And that is the way I repay you !
Were you anywhere but here and unprotected, there
would be a man to answer to for this outrage. I will
be that man myself ! — I come to ask your per-
mission ! "
His appetite, waking afresh, was the only directing
thing in Kreisler at present. With hypocritical —
almost palpably mock — eloquence, he was serving
that.
This talk alone would have been of little use or
consequence to Bertha. But coming in conjunction
with her new independent reinforcement, which alone
would have been enough to shape things to a specious
ending, it was in a way effective. — The new contra-
diction and struggle in her mind was between her
natural aversion for Kreisler now and her feeling of
clemency towards him in his now beautiful usefulness.
She was very dignified, wise, and clement when she
answered :
" Let us leave all that, if you please. — It was my
fault. — I should have known better what I was doing.
You must have been mad, as you say. But if you
wish to show yourself a gentleman now, the only
obvious thing is to go away, as I have said, and not
to molest or remind me any further of what has
passed. There is nothing more to say, is there ? — Go
now, please ! "
Kreisler flung himself on his knees, and seized her
hand, she receiving this with astonished, questioning
protestation.
" Fraulein, you are an angel ! You don't know
how much good you do me ! You are so good, so
good ! There is nothing you can ask of me too much.
I have done something I can never undo. It is as
though you had saved my life. — Otto Kreisler you
can always count on ! — The greatest service you can
do me, that I humbly beg you may — is to ask some
192
service of me, the more difficult the better ! — Good-
bye, Fraulein."
Giving her hand a last hug, he sprang up, and
Bertha heard him next stormily descending the stairs,
and then farther away passing rapidly down the
avenue.
Bertha was distinctly affected by this demonstra-
tion. It put a last brilliant light of grateful confusion
on all the emotions emanating from Kreisler. The
sort of notion he had evoked in parting that they
had been doing something splendid together — a life-
saving, a heroism — found a hospitable ground in her
spirit. Taking everything together, things had been
miraculously turned round. Her late blackness of
depression and perplexity now merged in steadily
growing relieved exaltation.
CHAPTEE XI
Tare had not gone to England. Kreisler had not
been sufficient to accomplish this. He still persisted
in his self-indulgent system of easy stages. A bus
ride distant, he would be able to keep away. But in
any case he did not wish to go to England, nor any-
where else, for that matter. Paris was much the
most suitable domicile, independently of Bertha, with
his present plans.
In the neighbourhood of the Place Clichy, in an old
convent, he found a room big enough for four people.
There, on the day of the second of the letters, he
arrived in a state of characteristic misgiving. It was
the habitual indigestion of Eeality. He was very
fond of reality. But he was like a man very fond of
what did not agree with him. It usually ended,
however, by his assimilating it.
The insouciant, adventurous, those needing no
preparation to live, he did not admire, but felt he
should imitate. — A new room was a thing that had
to be fitted into as painfully as a foot into some new
193 N
and too elegant boot. The things deposited on the
floor, the door finally closed on this new area to be
devoted exclusively to himself, the blankest discom-
fort descended on him. To undo and let loose upon
the room his portmanteau's squashed and dishevelled
contents — like a flock of birds, brushes, photographs
and books flying to their respective places on dressing-
table, mantelpiece, shelf or bibliothfeque ; boxes and
parcels creeping dog-like under beds and into corners,
taxed his character to the breaking-point. The
unwearied optimism of these inanimate objects, the
way they occupied stolidly and quickly room after
room, was appalling. Then they were packed up
things, with the staleness of a former room about
them, and the souvenir of a depressing time of
tearing up, inspecting, and interring.
This preliminary discomfort was less than ever
spared him here. He had cut his way to this decision
(to go and live in Montmartre), through a bristling
host of incertitudes. A place would have had to be
particularly spacious to convince him. This large
studio -room was worse than any desert. It had been
built for something else, and would never be right. —
A large square whitewashed box was what he wanted
to pack himself into. This was an elaborate carved
chest of a former age. He would no doubt pack it
eventually with consoling memories of work. He
started work at once, in fact. This was his sovereign
cure for new rooms.
Half an hour after his taking possession, it being <
already time for the aperitif, he issued forth into the
new quarter. There were a few clusters of men.
The Spanish men dancers were coloured earth-objects,
full of basking and frisking instincts ; the atmosphere
of the harlot's life went with them, and Spanish
reasonableness and civility. He chose a caf6 on the
Place Clichy. The hideous ennui of large gim crack
shops and dusty public offices pervaded other groups
of pink, mostly dark-haired Frenchmen drinking
appetizers. They responded with their personalities
on the cafe terraces to the emptiness of the boulevard.
194
He had not any friends in Montmartre. But he
had not been at the caf6 above a few minutes, when
he saw a familiar face approaching. It was a model
(Berthe, by name, though bringing no reminder with
her of the other " Berthe " he knew) with an English
painter he saw for the first time, but whom he had
just heard about in connexion with this girl. Berthe
knew Tarr very slightly. But she chose a table near
him, with a nod, and shortly opened conversation.
She meant to talk to him evidently. She asked
about one or two people Tarr knew.
" Do you' wish me to present you ? " she said,
looking towards her protector. " This is Mr. Tarr,
Dick."
So it was done.
" Why don't you come and sit here ? " That too
was done, partly from inquisitiveness.
The young Englishman annoyed Tarr by pretending
to be alarmed every time he was addressed. He had
a wide-open, wondering eye, fixed on the world in
timid serenity. It did not appear at first to under-
stand what you said, and rolled a little alarm edly,
even so only to be filled the next moment with some
unexpected light of whimsical intelligence. It had
understood all the time ! It was only its art to
surprise you, and its English affectation of unreadiness
and childishness.
> He was a great big child, wandering through life !
The young Latin wishes to impress you with his
ability to look after himself. General idiocy of
demeanour, on the other hand, is the fashionable
English style. This young man was six feet one,
with a handsome beak in front of his face, meant for
a super-Emersonian mildness. His " wide awake "
was large, larger than Hobson's. Innumerable minor
Tennysons had planted it on his head, or bequeathed
a desire for it to this ultimate Dick of long literary
line. His family was allied to much Victorian talent.
Bat, alas, thought Tarr, how much worse it is when
the mind gets thin than when the blood loses its body,
in merely aristocratic refinement. Intellectual aristo-
195
cracy in the fifth generation ! — but Tarr gazed at the
conclusive figure in front of him, words failing.
Words failed, too, for maintaining conversation with
it. He soon got up, and left, his first aperitif at
Montmartre unsatisfactory.
He did not take possession of his new life with very
much conviction. After dinner he went to a neigh-
bouring music hall, precariously amused, soothed by
the din. But he eventually left with a headache.
The strangeness of the streets, caf^s, and places of
entertainment depressed him deeply. Had it been
an absolutely novel scene, he would have found
stimulus in it. But it was like a friend grown
indifferent, or something perfectly familiar with the
richness of habit taken out of it. Tarr was gregarious
in the sense that usually he liked his room and some
familiar streets with their traces of familiar men.
And where more energetic spirit suggested some
truer solitude to him, he would never have sought it
where a vestige of inanimate friendship remained.
Here, where he had chosen to live, he appeared as
though fallen in some intermediate negative existence.
Unusually for him, he felt alone. To be alone was
essentially a nondescript, lowered, and unreal state
for him.
The following morning Tarr woke, his legs rather
cramped and tired, and not thoroughly rested. But
as soon as he was up, work came quite easily.
He got his paints out, and without beginning on
his principal canvas, took up a new and smaller one
by way of diversion. Squaring up a drawing of
three naked youths sniffing the air, with rather
worried Greek faces and heavy nether limbs, he stuck
it on the wall with pins and drew his camp easel up
alongside it. He squared up his canvas on the floor
with a walking-stick, and fixed it on the easel. To
get a threadlike edge a pencil had to be sharpened
several times.
By the end of the afternoon he had got a witty
pastiche on the way. Two colours principally had
been used, mixed in piles on two palettes : a smoky,
196
bilious saffron, and a pale transparent lead. The
significance of the thing depended first on the
psychology of the pulpy limbs, strained dancers'
attitudes and empty faces ; secondly, the two colours
and the simple yet contorted curves.
Work over, his depression again grasped him, like
an immensely gloomy companion who had been
idling impatiently while he worked. He promenaded
this companion in " Montmartre by Night," without
improving his character. Nausea glared at him from
every object met. Sex surged up and martyrized
him, but he held it down rather than satisfy himself
with its elementary servants.
The next day, merne jeu. He sat for hours in the
fatiguing evening among a score of relief ships or
pleasure boats, hesitating, but finally rejecting relief
or pleasure. And the next day it was the same
thing.
Meantime his work progressed. But to escape
these persecutions he worked excessively. His eyes
began to prick, and on the sixth day he woke up
with a headache. He was sick and unable to work.
Tarr decided he had been mistaken in remaining in
Paris. The fascination of the omnibuses bound for
the Rive gauche was almost irresistible. Destiny
had granted him the necessary resolution to break.
He could have gone away — anywhere, even. His
will had then offered him a free ticket, as it were, to
any end of the earth. Or simply, and most sensibly,
to London. And yet he had decided to go no farther
than Montmartre, in the unwisdom of his sense of
energy and freedom of that moment. Now the
" free ticket " was not any more available. His Will
had changed. It offered all sorts of different bus
tickets, merely, which would conduct him, avec and
sans correspondence, in the direction of the Quartier
du Paradis.
Why not go back again, simply, in fact ? The
mandates of the governing elements in our nature,
resolves, etc., were childish enough things. His
resentment against Bertha, and resolve to quit, would
197
always be there. There was room in life for the
satisfaction of this impulse, and the equally strong
one to see her again. The road back to the Quartier
du Paradis would probably have been taken quite
soon, only it needed in a way as much of an effort in
the contrary direction to get back as it had to get
away. He did not know what might await him
either. She might really have given him up and
changed her life. He had not the necessary experience
to dismiss that possibility.
But at last one evening he did go. He went
deliberately up to an omnibus " Clichy — St. Germain,"
and took his seat under its roof. He was resolved to
glut himself, without any atom of self-respect or
traces of " resolve " remaining, in what he had been
wanting to do for a week. He would go to Bertha's
rooms, even find out what had been happening in his
absence. He might even, perhaps, hang about a
little outside, and try to surprise her in some manner.
Then he would behave en maltre, there would be
no further question of his having given her up and
renounced his rights. He would behave just as
though he had never gone away or the letters been
sent. He would claim her again with all the appeals
he knew to her love for him. He would conduct
himself without a scrap of dignity or honesty. Once
the " resolution " and pride of his retiring had been
broken down, it was thenceforth immaterial to what
length he went. In fact, better be frankly weak and
unprincipled in his actions and manner, go the whole
length of his defeat and confusion. In such complete-
ness there remains a grain of superiority and energy.
But once started in his bus, a wave of excitement
and anxiety surged in him with hot gushes. — What
awaited him ? He fancied all sorts of strange develop-
ments. — Perhaps,after all, his journey would not satisfy
his weaker movement, but confirm and establish
definitely his more sensible resolves. Perhaps weak-
nesses would find at last the door closed against them.
He smiled at the city as they passed through it,
with the glee of a boy on a holiday excursion.
198
PART V
A MEGEIM OF HUMOUE
CHAPTEE I
Some days later, in the evening, Tarr was to be found
in a strange place. Decidedly his hosts could not
have explained how he got there. He displayed no
consciousness of the anomaly.
He had introduced himself — now for the second
time — into Fraulein Lipmann's aesthetic saloon, after
dining with her and her following at Flobert's Eestau-
rant. As inexplicable as Kreisler's former visits,
these ones that Tarr began to make were not so
perfectly unwelcome. There was a glimmering of
meaning in them for Bertha's women friends. He
had just walked in two nights before, as though he
were an old and established visitor there, shaken
hands and sat down. He then listened to their
music, drank their coffee and went away apparently
satisfied. Did he consider that his so close connexion
with Bertha entitled him to this ? It was at all
events a prerogative he had never before availed
himself of, except on one or two occasions at first, in
her company.
The women's explanation of this eccentric sudden
frequentation was that Tarr was in despair. His
separation from Bertha (or her conduct with Kreisler)
had hit him hard. He wished for consolation or
mediation.
Neither of these guesses was right. It was really
199
something absurder than that that had brought him
there.
Only a week or ten days away from his love affair
with Bertha, Tarr was now coming back to the old
haunts and precincts of his infatuation. He was
living it all over again in memory, the central and all
the accessory figures still in exactly the same place.
Suddenly, everything to do with " those days," as
he thought of a week or two before (or what had
ended officially then) had become very pleasing.
Bertha's women friends were delightful landmarks.
Tarr could not understand how it was he had not
taken an interest in them before. They had so much
of the German savour of that life lived with Bertha
about them !
But not only with them, but with Bertha Iter self he
was likewise carrying on this mysterious retrospective
life* He was so delighted, as a fact, to be free of
Bertha that he poetized herself and all her belong-
ings.
On this particular second visit to Fraulein Lip-
mann's he met Anastasya Vasek. She, at least, was
nothing to do with his souvenirs. Yet, not realizing
her as an absolute new-comer at once, he accepted her
as another proof of how delightful these people in
truth were.
He had been a very silent guest so far. They were
curious to hear what this enigma should eventually
say, when it decided to speak.
" How is Bertha ? " they had asked him.
" She has got a cold," he had answered. It was a
fact that she had caught a summer cold several days
before. — "How strange! " they thought. — "So he sees
her still ! "
" She hasn't been to Flobert's lately," Eenee
Lipmann said. " I've been so busy, or I'd have gone
round to see her. She's not in bed, is she ? "
" Oh, no, she's just got a slight cold. She's very
well otherwise," Tarr answered.
Bertha disappears. Tarr turns up tranquilly in her
place. Was he a substitute ? What could all this
200
mean ? Their first flutter over, their traditional
hostility for him reawakened. He had always been
an arrogant, eccentric, and unpleasant person :
" Homme egoiste ! Homme sensuel ! " in Van
Bencke's famous words.
On seeing him talking with new liveliness, not
displayed with them, to Anastasya, suspicions began
to germinate. Even such shrewd intuition, a develop-
ment from the reality, as this : " Perhaps getting to
lilce Germans, and losing Ms first, he had come here to
find another." Comfortable in his liberty, he was still
enjoying, by proxy or otherwise, the satisfaction of
slavery.
The arrogance implied by his infatuation for the
commonplace was taboo. He must be more humble,
he felt, and take an interest in his equals.
He had been " Homme egoiste " so far, but
" Homme sensuel " was an exaggeration. His con-
cupiscence had been undeveloped. His Bertha, if she
had not been a joke, would not have satisfied him.
She did not succeed in waking his senses, although
she had attracted them. There was no more reality
in their sex relations than in their other relations.
He now had a closer explanation of his attachment
to stupidity than he had been able to give Lowndes.
It was that his artist's asceticism could not support
anything more serious than such an elementary rival,
and, when sex was in the ascendant, it turned his
eyes away from the highest beauty and dulled the
extremities of his senses, so that he had nothing but
rudimentary inclinations left.
But in the interests of his animalism he was turning
to betray the artist in him. For he had been saying
to himself lately that a more suitable lady-companion
must be found ; one, that is, he need not be ashamed
of. He felt that the time had arrived for Life to
come in for some of the benefits of Consciousness.
Anastasya's beauty, bangles, and good sense were
the very thing.
Despite himself, Sorbert was dragged out of his
luxury of reminiscence without knowing it, and
201
began discriminating between the Bertha enjoyment
felt through the pungent German medium of her
friends, and this novel sensation. Yet this sensation
was an intruder. It was as though a man having
wandered sentimentally along an abandoned route, a
tactless and gushing acquaintance had been discovered
in unlikely possession.
Tarr asked her from what part of Germany she
came.
" My parents are Eussian. I was born in Berlin
and brought up in America. We live in Dresden,"
she answered.
This accounted for her jarring on his maudlin
German reveries.
" Lots of Eussian families have settled latterly in
Germany, haven't they ? " he asked.
" Eussians are still rather savage. The more
bourgeois a place or thing is the more it attracts
them. German watering places, musical centres and
so on, they like about as well as anything. They
often settle there."
"Do you regard yourself as a Eussian — or a
German ! "
" Oh, a Eussian. I "
" I'm glad of that," said Tarr, quite forgetting
where he was, and forgetting the nature of his
occupation.
" Don't you like Germans then ! "
" Well, now you remind me of it, I do : — very
much, in fact," He shook himself with self-reproach
and gazed round benignantly and comfortably at his
hosts. " Else I shouldn't be here ! They're such a
nice, modest, assimilative race, with an admirable
sense of duty. They are born servants ; excellent
mercenary troops, I understand. They should always
be used as such."
" I see you know them a fond." She laughed in
the direction of the Lipmann.
He made a deprecating gesture.
" Not much. But they are an accessible and
friendly people."
202
" You are English ? "
" Yes."
He treated his hosts with a warm benignity which
sought, perhaps, to make up for past affronts. It
appeared only to gratify partially. He was treating
them like part and parcel of Bertha. They were not
ready to accept this valuation, that of chattels of her
world.
The two Kinderbachs came over and made an
affectionate demonstration around and upon Anas-
tasya. She got up, scattering them abruptly, and
went over to the piano.
" What a big brute ! " Tarr thought. " She would
be just as good as Bertha to kiss. And you get a
respectable human being into the bargain ! " He was
not intimately convinced that she would be as satis-
factory. Let us see how it would be ; he considered.
This larger machine of repressed, moping senses did
attract. To take it to pieces, bit by bit, and penetrate
to its intimacy, might give a similar pleasure to
undressing Bertha !
Possessed of such an intense life as Anastasya,
women always appeared on the verge of a dark
spasm of unconsciousness. With their organism of
fierce mechanical reactions, their self-possession was
rather bluff. So much more accomplished socially
than men, yet they were not the social creatures, but
men. Surrender to a woman was a sort of suicide
for an artist. Nature, who never forgives an artist,
would never allow her to forgive. With any
11 superior " woman he had ever met, this feeling of
being with a parvenu never left him. Anastasya was
not an exception.
On leaving, Tarr no longer felt that he would come
back to enjoy a diffused form of Bertha there. The
prolongations of his Bertha period had passed a
climax.
On leaving Ben£e Lipmann's, nevertheless, Tarr
went to the Caf6 de PAigle, some distance away, but
with an object. To make his present frequentation
quite complete, it only needed Kreisler. Otto was
203
there, very much on his present visiting list. He
visited him regularly at the Caf6 de l'Aigle, where he
was constantly to be found.
This is how Tarr had got to know him.
CHAPTEE II
Tare had arrived at Bertha's place about seven in
the evening on his first return from Montmartre. He
hung about for a little. In ten minutes' time he had
his reward. She came out, followed by Kreisler.
Bertha did not see him at first. He followed on the
other side of the street, some fifteen yards behind.
He did this with sleepy gratification. All was well.
Eelations with her were now, it must be clear,
substantially at an end. A kind of good sensation of
alternating jealousy and regret made him wander
along with obedient gratitude. Should she turn
round and see him, how uncomfortable she would be !
How naturally alike in their mechanical marching
gait she and the German were ! He was a distinct
third party. Being a stranger, with very different
appearance, thrilled him agreeably. By a little
manoeuvre of short cuts he would get in front of
them. This he did.
Bertha saw him as he debouched from his turning.
She stopped dead, and appeared to astonished
Kreisler to be about to take to her heels. It was
flattering in a way that his mere presence should
produce this effect. He went up to her. Her palm
a sentimental instrument of weak, aching, heavy
tissues, she gave him her hand, face fixed on him in a
mask of regret and reproach. Fascinated by the
intensity of this, he had been staring at her a little
too long, perhaps with some of the reflection of her
expression. He turned towards Kreisler. He found
a, to him, conventionally German indifferent coun-
tenance.
204
11 Herr Kreisler," Bertha said with laconic energy,
as though she were uttering some fatal name. Her
" Herr Kreisler " said hollowly, " It's done ! " It
also had an inflexion of " What shall I do ? "
A sick energy saturated her face, the lips were inde-
cently compressed, the eyes wide, dull, with red rims.
Tarr bowed to Kreisler as Bertha said his name.
Kreisler raised his hat. Then, with a curious feeling
of already thrusting himself on these people, he began
to walk along beside Bertha. She moved like an
unconvinced party to a bargain, who consents to walk
up and down a little, preliminary to a final considera-
tion of the affair. " Yes, but walking won't help
matters," she might have been saying. Kreisler's
indifference was absolute. There was an element of
the child's privilege in Tarr's making himself of the
party (" Sorbet, tu es si jeune "). There was the
claim for indulgence of a spirit not entirely serious !
The childishness of this turning up as though nothing
had happened, with such wilful resolve not to recognize
the seriousness of things, Bertha's drama, the signi-
ficance of the awful words, " Herr Kreisler ! " and so
on, was present to him. Bertha must know the
meaning of his rapid resurrection — she knew him too
well not to know that. So they walked on, without
conversation. Then Tarr inquired if she were " quite
well."
' " Yes, Sorbert, quite well," she replied, with soft
tragic banter.
As though by design, he always found just the
words or tone that would give an opening for this
sentimental irony of hers.
But the least hint that he had come to reinstate
himself must not remain. It must be clearly under-
stood that Kreisler was the principal figure now. He,
Tarr, was only a privileged friend.
With unflattering rapidity somebody else had been
found. Her pretension to heroic attachment was
compromised. Should not he put in for the vacated
berth ?
He had an air of welcoming Kreisler. " Make
205
yourself at home ; don't mind me," his manner said.
As to showing him over the premises he was taking
possession of — he had made the inspection, himself,
no doubt !
" We have a mutual friend, Lowndes," Tarr said
to Kreisler, pleasantly. " A week or two ago he was
going to introduce me to you, but it was fated "
" Ah, yes, Lowndes," said Kreisler, " I know him."
" Has he left Paris, do you know ? "
" 1 think not. I thought I saw him yesterday,
there, in the Boulevard du Paradis." Kreisler nodded
over his shoulder, indicating precisely the spot on
which they had met. His gesture implied that
Lowndes might still be found thereabout.
Bertha shrank in " subtle " pantomime from their
affability. From the glances she pawed her German
friend with, he must deserve nothing but horrified
avoidance. Sorbert's astute and mischievous way of
saddling her with Kreisler, accepting their being
together as the most natural thing in life, roused her
combativity. Tarr honoured him, clearly out of
politeness to her. Very well : all she could do for
the moment was to be noticeably distant with
Kreisler. She must display towards him the disgust
and reprobation that Tarr should feel, and which he
refused, in order to vex her.
Kreisler during the last few days had persisted and
persisted. He had displayed some cleverness in his
choice of means. As a result of overtures and
manoeuvres, Bertha had now consented to see him.
Her demoralization was complete. She could not
stand up any longer against the result, personified by
Kreisler, of her idiotic actions. At present she
transferred her self -hatred from herself to Kreisler.
Tarr's former relations with Bertha were known to
him. He resented the Englishman's air of proprietor-
ship, the sort of pleasant " handing-over " that was
going on. It had for object, he thought, to cheapen
his little success.
206
11 1 don't think, Herr Kreisler, I'll come to dinner
after all." She stood still and rolled her eyes wildly
in several directions, and stuck one of her hands
stiffly out from her side.
" Very well, Fraulein," he replied evenly. — The
dismissal annoyed him. His eyes took in Tarr com-
pendiously in passing. Was this a resuscitation of old
love at his expense ? Tarr had perhaps come to
claim his property. This was not the way that is
usually done.
" Adieu, Herr Kreisler," sounded like his dismissal.
A " never let me see you again ; understand that here
things end ! " was written baldly in her very bald
eyes. With irony he bid good day to Tarr.
" I hope we shall meet again " : Tarr shook him
warmly by the hand.
" It is likely," Kreisler replied at once.
As yet Kreisler was undisturbed. He intended not
to relinquish his acquaintance with Bertha Lunken.
If the Englishman's amiability were a polite way of
reclaiming property left ownerless and therefore
susceptible of new rights being deployed as regards it,
then in time those later rights would be vindicated.
Kreisler's first impression of Tarr was not flattering.
But no doubt they would meet again, as he had said.
CHAPTEE III
Bertha held out her hand brutally, in a sort of spasm
of will : said, in the voice of " finality,"
" Good-bye, Sorbet : good-bye ! "
He did not take it. She left it there a moment,
saying again, " Good-bye ! "
" Good-bye, if you like," he said at length. " But
I see no reason why we should part in this manner.
If Kreisler wouldn't mind " — he looked after him —
" we might go for a little walk. Or will you come
and have an apfritifl "
207
" No, Sorbert, I'd rather not. — Let us say good-bye
at once ; will you ? "
" My dear girl, don't be so silly ! " He took her
arm and dragged her towards a cafe, the first on the
boulevard they were approaching.
She hung back, prolonging the personal contact,
yet pretending to be resisting it with ivonder.
" I can't, Sorbert. Je ne peux pas ! " purring her
lips out and rolling her eyes. She went to the caf£
in the end. For some time conversation hung back.
" How is Fraulein Lipmann getting on ? "
" I don't know. I haven't seen her."
11 Ah ! "
Tarr felt he had five pieces to play. He had
played one. The other four he toyed with in a lazy
way.
" Van Bencke ? "
" I have not seen her."
That left three.
" How is Isolde f "
" I don't know."
" Seen the Kinderbachs ! "
" One of them."
" How is Clara » "
11 Clara ? She is quite well, I think."
The solder for the pieces of this dialogue was a
dreary grey matter that Bertha supplied. Their talk
was an unnecessary column on the top of which she
perched herself with glassy quietude.
She turned to him abruptly as though he had been
hiding behind her, and tickling her neck with a piece
of feather-grass.
" Why did you leave me, Sorbert ? — Why did you
leave me ? "
He filled his pipe, and then said, feeling like a bad
actor :
" I went away at that particular moment, as you
know, because I had heard that Herr Kreisler "
" Don't speak to me about Kreisler — don't mention
his name, I beg you. — I hate that man. — Ugh ! "
Genuine vehemence made Tarr have a look at her.
208
Of course she would say that. She was using too
much genuineness, though, not to be rather flush of
it for the moment.
" But I don't see "
" Don't ; don't ! " She sat up suddenly in her
chair and shook her finger in his face. " If you
mention Kreisler again, Sorbert, I shall hate you too !
I especially pray you not to mention him."
She collapsed, mouth drawn down at corners.
11 As you like." In insisting he would appear to
be demanding an explanation. Any hint of excep-
tional claims on her confidence must be avoided.
" Why did you leave me ? — You don't know. — I
have been mad ever since. One is as helpless as can
be — When you are here once more, I feel how weak
I am without you. It has not been fair. I have felt
just as though I had got out of a sick-bed. I am not
BLAMING yOU."
They went to Flobert's from the caf6. It was after
nine o'clock, and the place was empty. She bought
a wing of chicken ; at a dairy some salad and eggs ;
two rolls at the baker's, to make a cold supper at
home. It was more than she would need for herself.
Sorbert did not offer to share the expense. At the
gate leading to her house he left her.
Immediately afterwards, walking towards the ter-
minus of the Montmartre omnibus, he realized that
he was well in the path that led away, as he had not
done while still with her. He was glad and sorry,
doing homage to her and the future together. She
had a fascination as a moribund Bertha. The
immobile short sunset of their friendship should be
enjoyed. A rich throwing up and congesting of
souvenirs on this threshold were all the better for the
weak and silly sun. Oh what a delightful, imper-
turbable clockwork orb !
The next day he again made his way across Paris
from Montmartre at a rather earlier hour. He
invited himself to tea with her. They talked as
though posing for their late personalities.
He took up deliberately one or two controversial
209 o
points. In a spirit of superfluous courtesy lie went
back to the subject of several of their old typical
disputes, and argued against himself.
All their difficulties seemed swept away in a
relaxed humid atmosphere, most painful and dis-
agreeable to her. He agreed entirely with her, now
agreeing no longer meant anything ! But the key
was elsewhere. Enjoyment of and acquiescence in
everything Berthaesque and Teutonic was where it
was to be found. Just as now he went to see Bertha's
very German friends, and said " How delightful " to
himself, so he appeared to be resolved to come back
for a week or two and to admire everything formerly
he had found most irritating in Bertha herself.
Before retiring definitely, like a man who hears that
the rind of the fruit he has just been eating is good,
and comes back to his plate to devour the part he
had discarded, Tarr returned to have a last tankard
of German beer.
Or still nearer the figure, his claim in the unexcep-
tionable part of her now lapsed, he had returned
demanding to be allowed to live just a little while
longer on the absurd and disagreeable section.
Bertha suffered, on her side, more than all the rest
of the time she had spent with him put together. To
tell the whole Kreisler story might lead to a fight. It
was too late now. She could not, she felt, in honour,
seek to re-entangle Tarr, nor could she disown Kreisler.
She had been found with Kreisler : she had no
means of keeping him away for good. An attempt
at suppressing him might produce any result. Should
she have been able, or desired to resume her relations
with Tarr, Kreisler would not have left him unin-
formed of things that had happened, shown in the
most uncongenial light. If left alone, and not driven
away like a dog, he might gradually quiet down and
disappear. Sorbert would be gone, too, by that time !
Their grand, never-to-be-forgotten friendship was
ending in shabby shallows. Tarr had the best role,
and did not deserve it. Kreisler was the implacable
remote creditor of the situation.
210
CHAPTEE IV
Tare, left Bertha punctually at seven. She looked
very ill. He resolved not to go there any more.
He felt upset. Lejeune's, when he got there, was
full of Americans. It was like having dinner among
a lot of canny children. Kreisler was not there.
He went on a hunt for him afterwards, and r n him
to earth at the Cafe de l'Aigle.
Kreisler was not cordial. He emitted sounds of
surprise, shuffled his feet and blinked. But Tarr
sat down in front of him on his own initiative. Then
Kreisler, calling the g argon, offered him a drink.
Afterwards he settled down to contemplate Bertha's
Englishman, and await developments. He was
always rather softer with people with whom he could
converse in his own harsh tongue.
The causes at the root of Tarr's present thrusting
of himself upon Kreisler were the same as his later
visits at the Lipmann's. A sort of bath of Germans
was his prescription for himself, a voluptuous im-
mersion. To heighten the effect, he was being
German himself : being Bertha as well.
But he was more German than the Germans.
Many aspects of his conduct were so un-German that
Kreisler did not recognize the portrait or hail him
as 'a fellow. Successive lovers of a certain woman
fraternizing ; husbands hobnobbing with their wives'
lovers or husbands of their unmarried days is a
commonplace of German or Scandinavian society.
Kreisler had not returned to Bertha's. He was
too lazy to plan conscientiously. But he concluded
that she had better be given scope for anything the
return of Tarr might suggest. He, Otto Kreisler,
might be supposed no longer to exist. His mind was
working up again for some truculent action. Tarr
was no obstacle. He would just walk through Tarr
like a ghost when he saw fit to " advance " again.
" You met Lowndes in Borne, didn't you ? " Tarr
asked him.
211
Kreisler nodded.
" Have you seen Fraulein Lunken to-day ? "
" No." As Tarr was coming to the point Kreisler
condescended to speak : "I shall see her to-morrow
morning."
A space for protest or comment seemed to be left
after this sentence, in Kreisler' s still very " speaking "
expression.
Tarr smiled at the tone of this piece of information.
Kreisler at once grinned, mockingly, in return.
" You can get out of your head any idea that I
have turned up to interfere with your proceedings,"
Tarr then said. " Affairs lie entirely between
Fraulein Lunken and yourself."
Kreisler met this assurance truculently.
" You could not interfere with my proceedings.
I do what I want to do in this life ! "
" How splendid. Wunderbar I I admire you ! "
" Your admiration is not asked for ! "
" It leaps up involuntarily ! Prosit ! But I did
not mean, Herr Kreisler, that my desire to interfere,
had such desire existed, would have been tolerated.
Oh, no ! I meant that no such desire existing, we
had no cause for quarrel. Prosit ! "
Tarr again raised his glass expectantly and coax-
ingly, peering steadily at the German. He said,
II Prosit " as he would have said, " Peep -oh ! "
" Pros't ! " Kreisler answered with alarming sud-
denness, and an alarming diabolical smile. " Prosit ! "
with finality. He put his glass down. " That is all
right. I have no desire" he wiped and struck up
his moustaches, " to quarrel with anybody. I wish
to be left alone. That is all."
" To be left alone to enjoy your friendship with
Bertha — that is your meaning ? Am I not right ?
I see."
" That is my business. I wish to be left alone"
" Of course it's your business, my dear chap.
Have another drink ! " He called the gargon.
Kreisler agreed to another drink.
Why was this Englishman sitting there and talking
212
to him ? It was in the German style and yet it
wasn't. Was Kreisler to be shifted, was he meant
to go ? Had the task of doing this been put on
Bertha's shoulders ? Had Tarr come there to ask
him, or in the hope that he would volunteer a promise,
never to see Bertha again ?
On the other hand, was he being approached by
Tarr in the capacity of an old friend of Bertha's, or
in her interests or at her instigation ?
With frowning impatience he bent forward quickly
once or twice, asking Tarr to repeat some remark.
Tarr's German was not good.
Several glasses of beer, and Kreisler became
engagingly expansive.
" Have you ever been to England ? " Tarr asked him.
11 England ? — No — I should like to go there ! I
like Englishmen ! I feel I should get on better with
them than with these French. I hate the French !
They are all actors."
" You should go to London."
" Ah, to London. Yes, I should go to London !
It must be a wonderful town ! I have often meant
to go there. Is it expensive ? "
" The journey ? "
11 Well, life there. Dearer than it is here, I have
been told." Kreisler forgot his circumstances for
the moment. The Englishman seemed to have hit
on a means of escape for him. He had never thought
of England ! A hazy notion of its untold wealth
made it easier for him to put aside momentarily the
fact of his tottering finances.
Perhaps this Englishman had been sent him by
the SchicJcsal. He had always got on well with
Englishmen !
The peculiar notion then crossed his mind that
Tarr perhaps wanted to get him out of Paris, and had
come to make him some offer of hospitality in England.
In a bargaining spirit he began to run England
down. He must not appear too anxious to go there.
" They say, though, things have changed.
England's not what it was," he said.
213
" No. But it has changed for the better."
" I don't believe it ! "
" Quite true. The last time I was there it had
improved so much that I thought of stopping.
Merry England is foutu ! There won't be a regular
Pub. in the whole country in fifty years. Art will
flourish ! There's not a real gipsy left in the country.
The sham art-ones are dwindling ! "
" Are the Zigeuner disappearing ? "
" Je vous crois ! Eather ! "
" The only Englishmen I know are very sym-
pathisch"
They pottered about on the subject of England
for some time. Kreisler was very tickled with the
idea of England.
" English women — what are they like ? " Kreisler
then asked with a grin. Their relations made this
subject delightfully delicate and yet, Kreisler thought,
very natural. This Englishman was evidently a
description of pander, and no doubt he would be as
inclined to be hospitable with his countrywomen in
the abstract as with his late fiancee in material
detail.
" A friend of mine who had been there told me they
were very ' pretty ' " — he pronounced the English
word with mincing slowness and mischievous inter-
rogation marks in his distorted face.
" Tour friend did not exaggerate. They are like
languid nectarines ! You would enjoy yourself there."
" But I can't speak English — only a little. ' I
spik Ingleesh a leetle,' " he attempted with pleasure.
" Very good ! You'd get on splendidly ! "
Kreisler brushed his moustaches up, sticking his
lips out in a hard gluttonous way. Tarr watched
him with sympathetic curiosity.
" But — my friend told me — they're not — very
easy ? They are great flirts. So far — and then
boufl You are sent flying ! "
" You would not find anything to compare with
the facilities of your own country. But you would
not wish for that ? "
214
11 No ?— But, tell me, then, they are cold !— They
are of a calculating nature ? "
11 They are practical, I suppose, up to a certain
point. But you must go and see."
Kreisler ruminated.
" What do you find particularly attractive about
Bertha ? " Tarr asked in a discursive way. " I ask
you as a German. I have often wondered what a
German would think of her."
Kreisler looked at him with resentful uncertainty
for a moment.
" You want to know what I think of the Lunken ? —
She's a sly prostitute, that's what she is ! " he
announced loudly and challengingly.
11 Ah ! "
When he had given Tarr time for any possible
demonstration, he thawed into his sociable self. He
then added :
" She's not a bad girl ! But she tricked you, my
friend ! She never cared that " — he snapped his
fingers inexpertly — " for you ! She told me so ! "
11 Eeally ? That's interesting. — But I expect you're
only telling lies. All Germans do ! "
" All Germans lie ? "
" ' Deutsches Voile — the folk that deceives ! ' is
your philosopher Metzsche's account of the origin
of the word Deutsch."
' Kreisler sulked a moment till he had recovered.
"No. We don't lie! Why should we? We're
not afraid of the truth, so why should we?"
" Perhaps, as a tribe, you lied to begin with, but
have now given it up % "
" What ? "
" That may be the explanation of Metzsche's
etymology. Although he seemed very stimulated at
the idea of your national certificate of untruthfulness.
He felt that, as a true patriot, he should react against
your blue eyes, beer, and childish frankness."
11 Quatseh I Metzsche was always paradoxal. He
would say anything to amuse himself. You English
are the greatest liars and hvpocrites on this earth ! "
215
<£ C
See the Continental Press ' ! You should not
swallow that rubbish. I only dispute your statement
because I know it is not first-hand. What I mean
about the Germans was that, like the Jews, they
are extremely proud of success in deceit. No enthu-
siasm of that sort exists in England. Hypocrisy is
usually a selfish stupidity, rather than the result of
cunning."
" The English are stupid hypocrites then ! We
agree. Prosit ! "
" The Germans are uncouth but zealous liars !
Prosit ! "
He offered Kreisler a cigarette. A pause occurred
to allow the acuter national susceptibilities to cool.
" You haven't yet given me your opinion of Bertha.
You permitted yourself a truculent flourish that
evaded the question."
" I wish to evade the question. — I told you that
she has tricked you. She is very malin ! She is
tricking me now ; or she is trying to. She will not
succeed with me ! ' When you go to take a woman
you should be careful not to forget your whip ! '
That Nietzsche said too ! "
" Are you going to give her a beating % " Tarr
asked.
Kreisler laughed in a ferocious and ironical manner.
" You consider that you are being fooled, in some
way, by Fraulein Lunken ? "
" She would if she could. She is nothing but
deceit. She is a snake. Pfui ! "
" You consider her a very cunning and double-
faced woman ? "
Kreisler nodded sulkily.
" With the soul of a prostitute ? "
" She has an innocent face, like a Madonna. But
she is a prostitute. I have the proofs of it ! "
" In what way has she tricked me?"
" In the way that women always trick men ! "
With resentment partly and with hard picturesque
levity Kreisler met Tarr's discourse.
This solitary drinker, particularly shabby, who
216
could be " dismissed " so easily, whom Bertha with
accents of sincerity, " hated, hated ! " was so different
to the sort of man that Tarr expected might attract
her, that he began to wonder. A certain satisfaction
accompanied these observations.
For that week he saw Kreisler nearly every day.
A partie d trois then began. Bertha (whom Tarr
saw constantly too) did not actually refuse admittance
to Kreisler (although he usually had first to knock
a good many times), yet she prayed him repeatedly
not to come any more. Standing always in a droop-
ing and desperate condition before him, she did her
best to avert a new outburst on his part. She sought
to mollify him as much as was consistent with the
most absolute refusal. Tarr, unaware of how things
actually stood, seconded his successor.
Kreisler, on his side, was rendered obstinate by
her often tearful refusal to have anything more what-
ever to do with him. He had come to regard Tarr
as part of Bertha, a sort of masculine extension of
her. At the caf6 he would look out for him, and
drink deeply in his presence.
" I will have her. I will have her ! " he once
shouted towards the end of the evening, springing
up and calling loudly for the gargon. It was all
Tarr could do to prevent him from going, with assur-
ances of intercession.
' His suspicions of Tarr at last awoke once more.
What was the meaning of this Englishman always
there ? What was he there for ? If it had not been
for him, several times he would have rushed off and
had his way. But he was always there between
them. And in secret, too, probably, and away from
him — Kreisler — he was working on Bertha's feelings,
and preventing her from seeing him. Tarr was any-
how the obstacle. And yet there he was, talking
and palavering, and offering to act as an inter-
mediary, and preventing him from acting. He alone
was the obstacle, and yet he talked as though he
were nothing to do with it, or at the most a casually
interested third party. That is how Kreisler felt on
217
his way home after having drunk a good deal. But
so long as Tarr paid for drinks he staved him off
his prey.
CHAPTEE V
Tare, soon regretted this last anti-climax stage of his
adventure. He would have left Kreisler alone in
future, but he felt that by frequenting him he could
save Bertha from something disagreeabe. With dis-
quiet and misgiving every night now he sat in front
of his Prussian friend. He watched him gradually
imbibing enough spirits to work him up to his pitch of
characteristic madness.
" After all, let us hear really what it all means,
your Kreisler stunt, and Kreisler ? " he said to her
four or five days after his reappearance. " Do you
know that I act as a dam, or rather a dyke, to his
outrageous flood of liquorous spirits every night ?
Only my insignificant form is between you and
destruction, or you and a very unpleasant Kreisler,
at any rate. — Have you seen him when he's drunk ?
— What, after all, does Kreisler mean ? Satisfy my
curiosity."
Bertha shuddered and looked at him with dramati-
cally wide-open eyes, as though there were no answer.
" It's nothing, Sorbert, nothing," she said, as
though Kreisler were the bubonic plague and she
were making light of it.
Yet a protest had to be made. He had rather
neglected the coincidence of his arrival and Bertha's
refusal to see Kreisler. He must avoid finding
himself manoeuvred into appearing the cause. A
tranquil and sentimental revenant was the role he
had chosen. Up to a point he encouraged Bertha
to see his boon companion and relax her sudden
exclusiveness. He hesitated to carry out thoroughly
his part of go-between and reconciler. At length he
began to make inquiries. After all, to have to hold
218
back his successor to the favours of a lady, from
going and seizing those rights (presumably temporarily
denied him), was a strange situation. At any moment
now it seemed likely that Kreisler would turn on
him. This would simplify matters. Better leave
lovers to fight out their own quarrels and not take up
the ungrateful role of interferer and voluntary police-
man. All his retrospective pleasure was being spoilt.
But he was committed to remain there for the present.
To get over his sensation of dupe, he was more sociable
with Kreisler than he felt. The German interpreted
this as an hypocrisy. His contempt and suspicion
of the peculiar revenant grew.
Bertha was tempted to explain, in as dramatic a
manner as possible, the situation to Tarr. But she
hesitated always because she thought it would lead
to a fight. She was often, as it was, anxious for
Tarr.
" Sorbert, I think I'll go to Germany at once," she
said to him, on the afternoon of his second visit to
Benee Lipmann's.
" Why, because you're afraid of Kreisler ? "
" No, but I think it's better."
" But why, all of a sudden ? "
" My sister will be home from Berlin, in a day or
two "
" And you'd leave me here to ' mind ' the dog."
,' " No. — Don't see Kreisler any more, Sorbert. Dog
is the word indeed ! He is mad : ganz verucht ! —
Promise me, Sorbert" — she took his hand — "not to
go to the eaf£ any more ! "
" Do you want him at your door at twelve to-
night ? — I feel I may be playing the part of — goose-
berry, is it ? "
" Don't, Sorbert. If you only knew ! — He was
here this morning, hammering for nearly half an
hour. But all I ask you is to go to the caf6 no more.
There is no need for you to be mixed up in all
this. I only am to blame."
11 1 wonder what is the real explanation of Kreisler?"
Sorbert said, pulled up by what she had said. " Have
219
you known him long — before you knew me, for
instance ? "
" BTo, only a week or two — since you went away."
" I must ask Kreisler. But he seems to have very
primitive notions about himself."
" Don't bother any more with that man, Sorbert.
You don't do any good. Don't go to the caf6 to-
night ! "
" Why to-night ? "
" Any night."
Kreisler certainly was a " new link" — too much.
The chief cause of separation had become an element
of insidious rapprochement
He left her silently apprehensive, staring at him
mournfully.
So that night, after his second visit to Fraulein
Lipmann's, he did not seek out Kreisler at his usual
headquarters with his first enthusiasm.
CHAPTEE VI
Already before a considerable pile of saucers, repre-
senting his evening's menu of drink, Kreisler sat quite
still, his eyes very bright, smiling to himself. Tarr did
not at once ask him " what Kreisler meant." " Kreis-
ler " looked as though it meant something a little
different on that particular evening. He acknowledged
Tarr's arrival slightly, seeming to include him in his
reverie. It was a sort of silent invitation to " come
inside." Then they sat without speaking, an unpleasant
atmosphere of police-court romance for Tarr.
Tarr still kept his retrospective luxury before him,
as it maintained the Kreisler side of the business in
a desired perspective. Anastasya, whom he had
seen that evening, had come as a diversion. He got
back, with her, into the sphere of " real " things
again, not fanciful retrospective ones.
This would be a reply to Kreisler (an Anastasya
for your Otto) and restore the balance. At present
220
they were existing on a sort of three-legged affair.
This inclusion of the fourth party would make
things solid and less precarious again.
To maintain his role of intermediary and go on
momentarily keeping his eye on Kreisler's threatening
figure, he must himself be definitely engaged in a
new direction, beyond the suspicion of hankerings
after his old love.
Did he wish to enter into a new attachment with
Anastasya ? That could be decided later. He would
make the first steps, retain her if possible, and out
of this charming expedient pleasant things might
come. He was compelled to requisition her for the
moment. She might be regarded as a travelling
companion. Thrown together inevitably on a stage-
coach journey, anything might happen. Delight,
adventure, and amusement was always achieved :
as his itch to see his humorous concubine is turned
into a " retrospective luxury," visits to the Lipmann
circle, mysterious relationship with Kreisler. This,
in its turn, suddenly turning rather prickly and
perplexing, he now, through the medium of a beau-
tiful woman, turns it back again into fun ; not
serious enough for Beauty, destined, therefore,
rather for her subtle, rough, satiric sister.
Once Anastasya had been relegated to her place
rather of expediency, he could think of her with
more freedom. He looked forward with gusto to
his work in her direction.
There would be no harm in anticipating a little.
She might at once be brought on to the boards, as
though the affair were already settled and ripe for
publicity.
" Do you know a girl called Anastasya Vasek f
She is to be found at your German friend's, Fraulein
Lipmann's."
" Yes, I know her," said Kreisler, looking up with
unwavering blankness. His introspective smile
vanished. " What then ? " was implied in his look.
What a fellow this Englishman was, to be sure !
221
What was he after now ? Anastasya was a much
more delicate point with him than Bertha.
" I've just got to know her. She's a charming girl,
isn't she ? " Tarr could not quite make out Kreisler's
reception of these innocent remarks.
" Is she ? " Kreisler looked at him almost with
astonishment.
There is a point in life beyond wilich we must
hold people responsible for accidents and their uncon-
sciousness. Innocence then loses its meaning.
Beyond this point Tarr had transgressed. Whether
Tarr knew anything or not, the essential reality was
that Tarr was beginning to get at him with Anastasya,
just having been for a week a problematic and officious
figure suddenly appearing between him and his prey
of the Eue Martine. The habit of civilized restraint
had kept Kreisler baffled and passive for a week.
Annoyance at Bertha's access of self-will had been
converted into angry interest in his new self-elected
boon companion. He had been preparing lately,
though, to borrow money from him. Anastasya
brought on the scene was another kettle of fish.
What did this Tarr's proceedings say ? They said :
" Bertha Lunken will have nothing more to do with
you. You mustn't annoy her any more. In the
meantime, I am getting on very well with Anastasya
Vasek ! "
A question that presented itself to Kreisler was
whether Tarr had heard the whole story of his assault
on his late fiancee ? The possibility of his knowing
this increased his contempt for Tarr.
Kreisler was disarmed for the moment by the
remembrance of Anastasya. By the person he had
regarded as peculiarly accessible becoming paradoxi-
cally out of his reach, the most distant and inacces-
sible — such as Anastasya — seemed to be drawn a
little nearer.
" Is Fraulein Vasek working in a studio ? " he
asked.
" She's at Serrano's, I think," Tarr told him.
222
11 So you go to Fraulein Liproann's ? "
" Sometimes."
Kreisler reflected a little.
" I should like to see her again."
Tarr began to scent another mysterious muddle.
Would he never be free of Herr Kreisler ? Perhaps
he was going to be followed and rivalled in this too ?
With deliberate meditation Kreisler appeared to be
coming round to Tarr's opinion. For his part too,
Fraulein Vasek was a nice young lady. " Yes, she
is nice ! " His manner began to suggest that Tarr
had put her forward as a substitute for Bertha !
For the rest of the evening Kreisler insisted upon
talking about Anastasya. How was she dressed ?
Had she mentioned him ? etc. Tarr felt inclined
to say, "But you don't understand ! She is for me.
Bertha is your young lady now ! " Only in reflecting
on this possible remark, he was confronted with the
obvious reply, " But is Bertha my young lady ? "
CHAPTEE VII
Tare had Anastasya in solitary promenade two days
after this. He had worked the first stage con-
summately. He swam with ease beside his big
hysterical black swan, seeming to guide her with
a golden halter. They were swimming with august
undulations of thought across the Luxembourg Gar-
dens on this sunny and tasteful evening about four
o'clock. The Latins and Scandinavians who strolled
on the Latin terrace were each one a microscopic
hero, but better turned out than the big doubtful
heroes of 1840.
The inviolate, constantly sprinkled and shining
lawns by the Lyc6e Henri Trois were thickly fringed
with a sort of seaside humanity, who sat facing them
and their coolness as though it had been the sea.
Leaving these upland expanses to the sedentary
swarms of Mammas and Papas, Tarr and Anastasya
233
crossed over beneath the trees past the children's
carousels grinding out their antediluvian lullabies.
This place represented the richness of four wasted
years. Four incredibly gushing, thick years ; what
had happened to this delightful muck % All this
profusion had accomplished for him was to dye the
avenues of a Park with personal colour for the rest
if his existence.
No one, he was quite convinced, had squandered so
much stuff in the neighbourhood of these terraces,
ponds, and lawns. So this was more nearly Ms ParJc
than it was anybody else's. He should never walk
through it without bitter and soothing recognition
from it. Well : that was what the Man of Action
accomplished. In four idle years he had been, when
most inactive, trying the man of action's job. He
had captured a Park ! — Well ! he had spent himself
into the Earth. The trees had his sap in them.
He remembered a day when he had brought a book
to the bench there, his mind tearing at it in advance,
almost writing it in its energy. He had been full of
such unusual faith. The streets around these gardens,
in which he had lodged alternately, were so many
confluents and tributaries of memory, charging it
on all sides with defunct puissant tides. The places,
he reflected, where childhood has been spent, or where,
later, dreams of energy have been flung away, year
after year, are obviously the healthiest spots for a
person. But perhaps, although he possessed the
Luxembourg Gardens so completely, they were com-
pletely possessed by thousands of other people ! So
many men had begun their childhood of ambition in
this neighbourhood. His hopes, too, no doubt, had
grown there more softly because of the depth and
richness of the bed. A sentimental miasma made
artificially in Paris a similar good atmosphere where
the mind could healthily exist as was found by artists
in brilliant complete and solid times. Paris was like
a patent food.
" Bile dit le mot, Anastase, n6 pour d'^ternels
224
jparchemins." He could not, however, get interested.
Was it the obstinate Eighteenth Century animal
vision ? When you plunge into these beings, must
they be all quivering with unconsciousness, like life
with a cat or a serpent ? — But her sex would throw
clouds over her eyes. She was a woman. It was no
good. Again he must confess Anastasya could only
offer him something too serious. He could not play with
that. Sex-loyalty to his most habitual lips interfered.
He had the protective instinct that people with a
sense of their own power have for those not equals
with whom they have been associated. He would
have given to Bertha the authority of his own spirit,
to prime her with himself that she might meet on
equal terms and vanquish any rival. He experienced
a slight hostility to Anastasya like a part of Bertha
left in himself protesting and jealous. It was chiefly
vanity at the thought of this superior woman's
contempt could she see his latest female effort.
11 1 suppose she knows all about Bertha," he thought.
Kreisler-like, he looked towards the Lipmann women.
11 Homme sensuel ! Homme 6goiste ! "
She seemed rather shy with him.
" How do you like Paris ? " he asked her.
" I don't know yet. Do you like it ? " She had a
flatness in speaking English because of her education
in the United States.
•* I don't like to be quite so near the centre of the
world. You can see all the machinery working. It
makes you a natural sceptic. But here I am. I
find it difficult to live in London."
" 1 should have thought everything was so perfected
here that the machinery did'not obtrude "
" I don't feel that. I think that a place like this
exists for the rest of the world. It works that the
other countries may live and create. That is the
rdle France has chosen. The French spirit seems to
me rather spare and impoverished at present."
" You regard it as a mother-drudge ? "
" More of a drudge than a mother. We don't get
much really from France, except tidiness."
225 p
" I expect you are ungrateful.' '
" Perhaps so. But I cannot get over a dislike for
Latin facilities. Suar&s finds a northern rhetoric of
ideas in Ibsen, for instance, exactly similar to the
word-rhetoric of the South. But in Latin countries
you have a democracy of vitality, the best things of
the earth are in everybody's mouth and nerves.
The artist has to go and find them in the crowd. You
can't have ' freedom' both ways. I prefer the
artist to be free, and the crowd not to be ' artists.'
What does all English and German gush or sentiment .
about the wonderful, the artistic French nation, etc.,
amount to ? They gush because they find thirty-
five million little Besnards, little Botrels, little
Bouchers, or little Bougereaus living together and
prettifying their towns and themselves. Imagine
England an immense garden city, on Letchworth
lines (that is the name of a model Fabian township
near London), or Germany (it almost has become
that) a huge nouveau-art, reform -dressed, bestatued
State. Practically every individual Frenchman of
course has the filthiest taste imaginable. You are
more astonished when you come across a sound,
lonely, and severe artist in France than elsewhere.
His vitality is hypnotically beset by an ocean of
artistry. His best instinct is to become rather aggres-
sively harsh and simple. The reason that a great
artist like Eodin or the Cubists to-day arouse more
fury in France than in England, for instance, is not ,
because the French are more interested in Art ! They
are less interested in art, if anything. It is because
they are all ' artistic ' and all artists in the sense that
a cheap illustrator or Mr. Brangwyn, E.A., or Mr.
Waterhouse, B.A., are. They are scandalized at good
art ; the English are inquisitive about and tickled by
it, like gaping children. Their social instincts are not
so developed and logical."
" But what difference does the attitude of the
crowd make to the artist ? "
" Well, we were talking about Paris, which is the
creation of the crowd. The man thinking in these
226
gardens to-day, the man thinking on the quays of
Amsterdam three centuries ago, think much the same
thoughts. Thought is like climate and chemistry.
It even has its physical type. But the individual's
projection of himself he must entrust to his milieu.
I maintain that the artist's work is nowhere so unsafe
as in the hands of an ' artistic ' vulgarly alive public.
The other question is his relation to the receptive
world, and his bread and cheese. Paris is, to begin
with, no good for bread and cheese, except as a market
to which American and Eussian millionaire dealers
come. Its intelligence is of great use. But no friend-
ship is a substitute for the blood-tie ; and intelligence
is no substitute for the response that can only come
from the narrower recognition of your kind. This
applies to the best type of art rather than work of
very personal genius. Country is left behind by that.
Intelligence also."
" Don't you think that work of very personal
genius often has a country ? It may break through
accidents of birth to perfect conditions somewhere ;
not necessarily contemporary ones or those of the
country it happens in ? "
" I suppose you could find a country or a time for
almost anything. But I am sure that the best has
in reality no Time and no Country. That is why it
accepts without fuss any country or time for what
they are worth ; thence the seeming contradiction,
that it is always actual. It is alive, and nationality is
a portion of actuality."
11 But is the best work always ' actual ■ and up to
date ? "
" It always has that appearance. It's manners arc
perfect."
" I am not so sure that manners cannot be over-
done. A personal code is as good as the current
code."
" The point seems to me to be, in that connexion,
that manners are not very important. You use them
as you use coins."
" The most effectual men have always been those
227
whose notions were diametrically opposed to those of
their time," she said carefully.
" I don't think that is so ; except in so far as all
effectual men are always the enemies of every time.
With that fundamental divergence, they give a weight
of impartiality to the supreme thesis and need of
their age. Any opinion of their fellows that they
adopt they support with the uncanny authority of
a plea from a hostile camp. All activity on the part
of a good mind has the stimulus of a paradox. To
produce is the sacrifice of genius."
They seemed to have an exotic grace to him as they
promenaded their sinuous healthy intellects in this
eighteenth- century landscape. There was no other
pair of people who could talk like that on those
terraces. They were both of them barbarians, head
and shoulders taller than the polished stock around.
And they were highly strung and graceful. They were
out of place.
" Your philosophy reminds me of Jean -Jacques,"
she said.
" Does it ? How do you arrive at that con-
clusion f "
" Well, your hostility to a tidy rabble, and prefer-
ence for a rough and uncultivated bed to build on
brings to mind ' wild nature ' and the doctrine of the
natural man. You want a human landscape similar
to Jean-Jacques' rocks and water falls."
" I see what you mean. But I also notice that the,
temper of my theories is the exact opposite of Jean-
Jacques'. — He raved over and poetized his wild nature
and naturalness generally and put it forward as an
ideal. My point of view is that it is a question of
expediency only. I do not for a moment senti-
mentalize crudeness. I maintain that that crude and
unformed bed, or backing, is absolutely essential to
maximum fineness ; just as crudity in an individual's
composition is necessary for him to be able to create.
There is no more absolute value in stupidity and
formlessness than there is in dung. But they are
just as necessary. The conditions of creation and of
228
■life disgust me. The birth of a work of art is as dirty
as that of a baby. But I consider that my most
irremediable follies have come from fastidiousness ;
not the other thing. If you are going to work or
peform, you must make up your mind to have dirty
hands most part of the time. Similarly, you must
praise chaos and filth. It is put there for you. In-
cense is, I believe, camels' dung. When you praise,
you do so with dung. When you see men fighting,
robbing each other, behaving meanly or breaking
out into violent vulgarities, you must conventionally
clap your hands. If you have not the stomach to do
that, you cannot be a creative artist. If people
stopped behaving in that way, you could not be a
creative artist."
" So you would discourage virtue, self-sacrifice, and
graceful behaviour ? "
"No, praise them very much. Also praise deceit,
lechery, and panic. Whatever a man does, praise
him. In that way you will be acting as the artist
does: If you are not an artist, you will not act in
that way. An artist should be as impartial as God."
Is God impartial ? "
"We disintegrate. His dream is no doubt ignorant
of our classifications."
" Eousseau again-
If you really want to saddle me with that Swiss, I
will help you. My enthusiasm for art has made me
tond of chaos. It is the artist's fate almost always to
be exiled among the slaves. The artist who takes
his job seriously gets his sensibility blunted. He is
less squeamish than other people and less discrimi-
nating."
" He becomes in fact less of an artist ? "
" An artist is a cold card, with a hide like a rhi-
noceros."
| " You are poetizing him ! But if that is so, wouldn't
it be better to be something else ? "
" No, I think it's about the best thing to be."
" With his women companions, sweethearts, he is
also apt to be undiscriminating."
229
" He is notorious for that ! "
11 I think that is a pity. Then that is because I am
a woman, and am conscious of not being a slave."
" But then such women as you are condemned also
to find themselves surrounded by slaves ! "
11 Your frequentation of the abject has not caused
you to forget one banal art ! "
" You tempt me to abandon art. Art is the refuge
of the shy."
" Are you shy ? "
" Yes."
" You need not be."
Her revolving hips and thudding skirts carried her
forward with the orchestral majesty of a simple ship.
He suddenly became conscious of the monotonous
racket.
At that moment the drums beat to close the gardens.
They had dinner in a Bouillon near the Seine. They
parted about ten o'clock.
CHAPTEE VIII
For the first time since his " return " Tarr found no
Kreisler at the caf£. " I wonder what that animal's
up to," he thought. The gargon told him that Kreisler
had not been there at all that evening. Tarr recon-
sidered his responsibilities. He could not return to
Montmartre without just informing himself of Kreis-
ler 's whereabouts and state of mind. The "obstacle "
had been eluded. It must be transported rapidly " in
the way " again, wherever and in whatever direction
the sluggish stream was flowing.
Bertha's he did not intend to go to if he could help
it. A couple of hours at tea-time was what he had
instituted as his day's " amount " of her company.
Kreislefs room would be better. This he did. There
was a light in Kreisler 's room. The window had been
pointed out to him. This perhaps was sufficient,
Tarr felt. He might now go home, having located
230
.him. Still, since he was there he would go up and
make sure. He lighted his way up the staircase with
matches. Arrived at the top floor he was uncertain
at which door to knock. He chose one with a light
beneath it and knocked.
In a moment some one called out "Who is it? "
Eecognizing the voice Tarr answered, and the door
opened slowly. Kreisler was standing there in his
shirt-sleeves, glasses on, and a brush in his hand.
" Ah, come in," he said.
Tarr sat down, and Kreisler went on brushing his
hair. When he had finished he put the brush down
quickly, turned round, and pointing to the floor said,
in a voice suggesting that that was the first of several
questions :
" Why have you come here ? "
Tarr at once saw that he had gone a step too far,
and either shown bad calculation or chanced on his
rival at an unfortunate time. It was felt, no doubt,
that — acting more or less as " keeper," or check, at
any rate — he had come to look after his charge, and
hear why Kreisler had absented himself from the caf6.
" Why have you come here % " Kreisler asked
again, in an even tone, pointing again with his fore-
finger to the centre of the floor.
" Only to see you, of course. I thought perhaps
you weren't well."
" Ah, so ! I want you, my dear English friend, now
that you are here, to explain yourself a little. Why
do you honour me with so much of your company ? "
" Is my company disagreeable to you % "
" I wish to know, sir, why I have so much of it ! "
The Deutscher-student was coming to the top. His
voice had risen and the wind of his breath appeared
to be making his moustaches whistle.
"I, of course, have reasons, besides the charm of
your society, for seeking you out."
Tarr was sitting stretched on one of Kreisler's two
chairs looking up frowningly. He was annoyed at
having let himself in for this interview. Kreisler
stood in front of him without any expression in
231
particular, his voice rather less guttural than usual.
Tarr felt ill at ease at this sudden breath of storm and
kept still with difficulty.
" You have reasons ? You have reasons !
Heavens'! Outside ! Quick ! Out ! "
There was no doubt this time that it was in earnest.
He was intended rapidly to depart. Kreisler was
pointing to the door. His cold grin was slightly on
his face again, and an appearance of his hair having
receded on his forehead and his ears gone close
against his head warned Tarr definitely where he was.
He got up. The absurdity in the situation he had got
himself into chiefly worried him. He stood a moment
in a discouraged way, as though trying to remember
something. His desire for a row had vanished with
the arrival of it. It had come at such an angle
that it was difficult to say anything, and he had a
superstition of the vanity about the marks left by
hands, or rather his hands.
" Will you tell me what on earth's the matter with
you to-night ? " he asked.
" Yes ! I don't want to be followed about by an
underhand swine like you any longer ! By what
devil's impudence did you come here to-night ?
For a week I've had you in the caf6. What did you
want with me ? If you wanted your girl back, why
hadn't you the courage to say so % I saw you with
another lady to-night. I'm not going to have you
hovering and slavering around me. Be careful I don't
come and pull your nose when I see you with that
other lady ! You're welcome, besides, to your
girl "
" I recommend you to hold your mouth ! Don't
talk about my girl. I've had enough of it. Where
her sense was when she alighted on a specimen like
you — " Tarr's German hesitated and suddenly
struck, as though for the rest of the night. He had
stepped forward with a suggestion of readiness for
drama :
" Heraus, schwein ! " shouted Kreisler, in a sort of
incredulous drawling crescendo, shooting his hand
232
towards the door and urging his body like the cox
of a boat. Like a sheep-dog he appeared to be collect-
ing Tarr together and urging him out.
Tarr stood staring doubtfully at him.
" What "
" Heraus ! Out ! Quicker ! Quicker ! ! Quick ! ( "
His last word, " Schnell ! " dropped like a plummet
to the deepest tone his throat was capable of. It was
short and so absolutely final that the grace given,
even after it had been uttered, for this hateful visitor
to remove himself, was a source of astonishment to
Tarr. For a man to be ordered out of a room that
does not belong to him always puts him at a dis-
advantage. Should he insist, forcibly and success-
fully, to remain, it can only be for a limited time. He
will have to go sooner or later, and make his exit,
unless he establish himself there and make it his
home henceforth ; a change of lodging most people
are not, on the spur of the moment, prepared to decide
on. The room, somehow, too, seems on its owner's
side, and to be vomiting forth the intruder. The
civilized man's instinct of ownership makes it im-
possible for any but the most indelicate to resist a
feeling of hesitation before the idea of resistance in
another man's shell ! All Tarr's attitude to this man
had been made up of a sort of comic hypocrisy.
Neither comedy nor hypocrisy were usable for the
moment.
Had Tarr foreseen this possible termination of his
rdle of " obstacle ? " And ought he, he would ask
himself, to have gone on with this half-farce if he
were not prepared to meet the ultimate consequences ?
Kreisler was quite unworthy to stand there, with
perfect reason, and to be telling him to " get out."
It was absurd to exalt Kreisler in that way ! But
Tarr had probably counted on being equal to any
emergency, and baffling or turning Kreisler's violence
in some genial manner.
He stood for a few seconds in a tumultuous hesita-
tion, when he saw Kreisler run across the room, bend
forward and dive his arm down behind his box. He
233
watched with uncomfortable curiosity this new move,
as one might watch a surgeon's haste at the crisis
of an operation, searching for some necessary imple-
ment, mislaid for the moment. He felt schoolboy -
like, left waiting there at Kreisler's disposition. It
was as a reaction against this unpleasant feeling that
he stepped towards the door. The wish not to
" obey " or to seem to turn tail either had alone kept
him where he was. He had just found the door when
Kreisler, with a bound, was back from his box,
flourishing an old dog- whip in his hand.
" Ah, you go ? Look at this ! " He cracked the whip
once or twice. " This is what I keep for hounds like
you ! " Crack ! He cracked it again in rather an
inexperienced way with a certain difficulty. He
frowned and stopped in his discourse, as though it
had been some invention he were showing off, that
would not quite work at the proper moment, necessi-
tating concentration.
" If you wish to see me again, you can always find
me here. You won't get off so easily next time ! "
He cracked the whip smartly and then slammed the
door.
Tarr could imagine him throwing it down in a corner
of the room, and then going on with his undressing.
When Kreisler had jumped to the doorway Tarr had
stepped out with a half-defensive, half-threatening
gesture and then gone on with strained slowness,
lighting a match at the head of the stairs. He felt
like a discomfited pub-loafer as he raised the match to
an imaginary clay pipe rising in his mind. There was
the ostentatious coolness of the music-hall comedian.
The thing that had chiefly struck him in Kreisler
under this new aspect was a kind of nimbleness, a
pettiness in his behaviour and movements, where
perhaps he had expected more stiffness and heroics ;
the clown-like gibing form his anger took, a frigid
disagreeable slyness and irony, a juvenile quickness
and coldness.
Tarr was extremely dissatisfied with the part he had
played in this scene. First of all he felt he had with-
234
drawn too quickly at the appearance of the whip,
although he had in fact got under way before it had
appeared. Then, he argued, he should have stopped
at the appearance of this instrument of disgrace. To
stop and fight with Kreisler, what objection was there
to that, he asked himself % A taking Kreisler too
seriously ? But what less serious than fighting ?
He had saved himself an unpleasantness, something
ridiculous, merely to find himself outside Kreisler's
door, a feeling of primitive dissatisfaction in him.
Had he definitely been guilty of a lack of pluck or
pride, it would have been better.
There was something mean and improper in all this
that he could not reason away or mistake. He had
undoubtedly insulted this man by his attitude,
s'en Stait fiche de lui; and when the other turned,
whip in hand, he had walked away. What really
should he have done ? He should, no doubt, he
thought, having humorously instituted himself Kreis-
ler's keeper, have humorously struggled with him,
when the idiot became obstreperous. At that point
his humour had stopped. Then his humour had
limitations ?
Once and for all and certainly : he had no right to
treat a man as he had treated Kreisler and yet claim,
when he turned and resented this treatment, immunity
,from action on the score of Kreisler's idiocy. In
allowing the physical struggle any importance he
allowed Kreisler an importance, too, that made his
former treatment of him unreal and unjustified. In
Kreisler's eyes he was a blagueur, without resist-
ance at a pinch, who walks away when turned on.
This opinion was of no importance, since he had not a
shadow of respect for Kreisler. Again he turned on
himself. If he was so weak-minded as to care what
trash like Kreisler thought or felt ! He wandered
in the direction of the Caf6 de l'Aigle, gripped in this
ratiocination.
His unreadiness, his dislike for action, his fear of
ridicule, he treated severely in turn. He thought of
everything he could against himself. And he laughed
235
at himself. But it was no good. At last he gave
way to the urgency of his vanity and determined not
to leave the matter where it was. At once plans for
retrieving this discomfort came crowding on him.
He would go to the cafd as usual on the following
evening, sit down smilingly at Kreisler's table as
though nothing had happened. In short, he would
altogether endorse the opinion that Kreisler had
formed of him. And yet why this meanness, even
assumed, Tarr asked himself, even while arranging
realistically his to-morrow evening's purification ?
Always in a contemptuous spirit, some belittlement or
unsavoury r61e was suggesting itself. His contempt
for everybody degraded him.
Still, for a final occasion and since he was going
this time to accept any consequences, he would
follow his idea. He would be, to Kreisler's mind for
a little, the strange " slaverer and hoverer " who had
been kicked out on the previous night. He would even
have to " pile it on thick " to be accepted at all,
exaggerate in the direction of Kreisler's unflattering
notion of him. Then he would gradually aggravate
Kreisler, and with the same bonhomie attack him
with resolution. He laughed as he came to this point,
as a sensible old man might laugh at himself on arriv-
ing at a similar decision.
Soothed by the prospect of this rectification of the
evening's blunder, Tarr once more turned to reflect
on it, and saw more clearly than ever the parallel
morals of his Bertha affair and his Kreisler affair.
His sardonic dream of life got him, as a sort of
Quixotic dreamer of inverse illusions, blows from the
swift arms of windmills and attacks from indignant
and perplexed mankind. He, instead of having con-
ceived the world as more chivalrous and marvellous
than it was, had conceived it as emptied of all dignity,
sense, and generousness. The drovers and publicans
were angry at not being mistaken for legendary
chivalry or chatelaines. The very windmills resented
not being taken for giants ! The curse of humour
was in him, anchoring him at one end of the
236
see-saw whose movement and contradiction was
life.
Eeminded of Bertha, he did not, however, hold her
responsible. But his protectorate would be wound
up. Acquaintance with Anastasya would be left
where it was, despite the threatened aggression
against his nose.
237
PART VI.
HOLOCAUSTS
CHAPTEE I
Tare's character at this time performed re-
peatedly the following manoeuvre: his best energies
would, once a farce was started, gradually take over
the business from the play department and con-
tinue it as a serious line of its own. It was as
though it had not the go to initiate anything of its
own accord. It was content to exploit the clown's
discoveries.
The bellicose visit to Kreisler now projected was
launched to a slow blast of Humour, ready, when the
time came, to turn into a storm. His contempt for
the German would not allow him to enter into any-
thing seriously against him. Kreisler was a joke.
Jokes, it had to be admitted (and in that they became
more effective than ever), were able to make you
sweat.
That Kreisler could be anywhere but at the Caf6
de l'Aigle on the following evening never entered
Tarr's head. As he was on an unpleasant errand, he
took it for granted that Fate would on this occasion
put everything punctually at his disposal. Had it
been an errand of pleasure, he would have instinc-
tively supposed the reverse.
At ten, and at half-past, his rival had not yet
arrived. Tarr set out to make rapidly a tour of the
other caf^s. But Kreisler might be turning over a
238
new leaf. He might be going to bed, as on the
previous evening. He must not be again sought,
though, on his own territory. The moral disadvan-
tage of this position, on a man's few feet of most
intimate floor space, Tarr had clearly realized.
The Cafe Souchet, the most frequented caf6 of the
Quarter, entered merely in a spirit of German
thoroughness, was, however, the one. More alert,
and brushed up a little, Tarr thought, Kreisler was
sitting with another man, with a bearded, naif, and
rather pleasant face, over his coffee. No pile of
saucers this time attended him.
The stranger was a complication. Perhaps the
night's affair should be put off until the conditions
were more favourable. But Tarr's vanity was
impatient. His wait in the original cafe had made
him nervous and hardly capable of acting with cir-
cumspection. On the other hand, it might come at
once. This was an opposite complication. Kreisler
might open hostilities on the spot. This would rob
him of the subtle benefits to be derived from his
gradual strategy. This must be risked. He was not
very calm. He crudely went up to Kreisler's table
and sat down. The feeling of the lack of aplomb in
this action, and his disappointment at the presence
of the other man, chased the necessary good humour
out of his face. He had carefully preserved this expres-
sion for some time, even walking lazily and quietly as
if he were carrying a jug of milk. Now it vanished
in a moment. Despite himself, he sat down opposite
Kreisler as solemn as a judge, pale, his eyes fixed on
the object of his activity with something like a scowl.
But, his first absorption in his own sensations lifted
and eased a little, he recognized that something very
unusual was in the air.
Kreisler and his friend were not speaking or
doing anything visibly. They were just sitting still,
two self-possessed malefactors. Nevertheless, Tarr's
arrival to all appearance disturbed and even startled
them, as if they had been completely wrapped up in
some engrossing game or conspiracy.
239
Kreisler had his eyes trained across the room. The
other man, too, was turned slightly in that direction,
although his eyes followed the tapping of his boot
against the ironwork of the table, and he only looked
up occasionally.
Kreisler turned round, stared at Tarr without at
once taking in who it was ; then, as though saying to
himself, " It's only Bertha's Englishman," he took
up his former wilful and patient attitude, his eyes
fixed.
Tarr had grinned a little as Kreisler turned his way,
rescued from his solemnity. There was just a per-
ceptible twist in the German's neck and shade of
expression that would have said " Ah, there you are ?
Well, be quiet, we're having some fun. Just you
wait ! "
But Tarr was so busy with his own feelings that he
didn't understand this message. He wondered if he
had been seen by Kreisler in the distance, and if this
reception had been concerted between him and his
friend. If so, why ?
Sitting, as he was, with his back to the room, he
stared at his neighbour. His late boon companion
distinctly was waiting, with absurd patience, for
something. The poise of his head, the set of his
yellow Prussian jaw, were truculent, although other-
wise he was peaceful and attentive. His collar
looked new rather than clean. His necktie was one
not familiar to Tarr. Boots shone impassibly under
the table.
Tarr screwed his chair sideways, and faced the
room. It was full of people — very athletically
dressed American men, all the varieties of the pro-
vincial in American women, powdering their noses
and ogling Turks, or sitting, the younger ones, with
blameless interest and fine complexions. And there
were plenty of Turks, Mexicans, Eussians and other
" types " for the American ladies ! In the wide
passage-way into the further rooms sat the orchestra,
playing the " Moonlight Sonata," Dvorak and the
" Machiche."
240
In the middle of the room, at Tarr's back, he now
saw a group of eight or ten young men whom he had
seen occasionally in the Caf6 Berne. They looked
rather German, but smoother and more vivacious.
Poles or Austrians, then ? Two or three of them
appeared to be amusing themselves at his expense.
Had they noticed the little drama that he was con-
ducting at his table ? Were they friends of Kreisler's,
too ! — He was incapable of working anything out.
He flushed and felt far more like beginning on them
than on his complicated idiot of a neighbour, who
had become a cold task. This genuine feeling
illuminated for him the tired frigidity of his present
employment.
He had moved his chair a little to the right, towards
the group at his back, and more in front of Kreisler,
so that he could look into his face. On turning back
now, and comparing the directions of the various pairs
of eyes engaged, he at length concluded that he was
without the sphere of interest ; just without it.
At this moment Kreisler sprang up. His head was
thrust forward, his hands were in rear, partly clenched
and partly facilitating his passage between the tables
by hemming in his coat tails. The smooth round
cloth at the top of his back, his smooth head above
that with no back to it, struck Tarr in the way a
momentary smell of sweat would. Germans had no
backs to them, or were like polished pebbles behind.
Tarr mechanically moved his hand upwards from his
lap to the edge of the table on the way to ward off a
blow. He was dazed by all the details of this meeting,
and the peculiar miscarriage of his plan.
But Kreisler brushed past him with the swift deft-
ness of a person absorbed with some strong movement
of the will. The next moment Tarr saw the party of
young men he had been observing in a sort of noisy
blur of commotion. Kreisler was in among them,
working on something in their midst. There were
two blows — smack — smack; an interval between
them. He could not see who had received them.
Tarr then heard Kreisler shout in German :
241 q
" For the second time to-day ! Is your courage so
slow that I must do it a third time f "
Conversation had stopped in the caf6 and every-
body was standing. The companions of the man
smacked, too, had risen in their seats. They were
expostulating in three languages. Several were mixed
up with the gargons, who had rushed up to do their
usual police work on such occasions. Over Kreisler's
shoulder, his eyes carbonized to a black sweetness, his
cheeks a sweet sallow-white, with a red mark where
Kreisler's hand had been, Tajr saw the man his
German friend had singled out. He had sprung
towards the aggressor, but by that time Kreisler had
been seized from behind and was being hustled
towards the door. The blow seemed to hurt his
vanity so much that he was standing half-conscious
till the pain abated. He seemed to wish to brush the
blow off, but was too vain to raise his hands to his
cheek. It was left there like a scorching compress.
His friends, Kreisler wrenched away from them, were
left standing in a group, in attitudes more or less of
violent expostulation and excitement.
Kreisler receded in the midst of a band of waiters
towards the door. He was resisting and protesting,
but not too much to retard his quick exit. The
gargons had the self-conscious unconcern of civilian
braves.
The young man attacked and his friends were
explaining what had happened, next, to the manager
of the cafe. A gargon brought in a card on a plate.
There was a new outburst of protest and contempt
from the others. The plate was presented to the
individual chiefly concerned, who brushed it away, as
though he had been refusing a dish that a waiter was,
for some reason, pressing upon him. Then suddenly
he took up the card, tore it in half, and again waived
away the persistent platter. The gargon looked at
the manager of the caf6 and then returned to the
door.
So this was what Kreisler and the little bearded
242
man had been so busy about ! Kreisler had laid his
plans for the evening as well ! Tarr's scheme was
destined not to be realized ; unless he followed
Kreisler at once, and got up a second row, a more
good-natured one, just outside the caf6 ? Should he
go out now and punch Kreisler's head, fight about a
little bit, and then depart, his business done, and
leave Kreisler to go on with his other row ? For he
felt that Kreisler intended making an evening of it.
His companion bad not taken part in the fracas, but
had followed on his heels in his ejection, protesting
with a vehemence that was intended to hypnotize.
Just at the moment when he had felt that he was
going to be one of the principal parties to a violent
scene, Tarr had witnessed, not himself at all, but
another man snatched up into his role. He felt
relieved. As he watched the man Kreisler had struck,
he seemed to be watching himself. And yet he felt
rather on the side of Kreisler. With a mortified
chuckle he prepared to pay for his drink and be off,
leaving Kreisler for ever to his very complicated,
mysterious and turbulent existence. He noticed just
then that Kreisler's friend had come back again, and
was talking to the man who had been struck. He
could hear that they were speaking Eussian or Polish.
With great collectedness, Kreisler's emissary, evi-
dently, was meeting their noisy expostulations. He
could not at least, like a card, be torn in half ! On
the other hand, in his person he embodied the re-
spectability of a visiting card. He was dressed with
perfect " correctness " suitable to such occasions and
such missions as his appeared to be. By his gestures
(one of which was the taking an imaginary card
between his thumb and forefinger and tearing it) Tarr
could follow a little what he was saying.
" That, sir," he seemed to assert, " is not the way
to treat a gentleman. That, too, is an insult no
gentleman will support." He pointed towards the
door. " Herr Kreisler, as you know, cannot enter the
cafe ; he is waiting there for your reply. He has
been turned out like a drunken workman."
243
The Eussian was as grave as he was collected, and
stood in front of the other principal in this affair, who
had sat down again now, with the evident deter-
mination to get a different reply. The talking went
on for some time. Then he turned towards Tarr, and,
seeing him watching the discussion, came towards
him, raising his hat. He said in French :
" You know Herr Kreisler, I believe. Will you
consent to act for him with me, in an affair that
unfortunately ? If you would step over here, I
will put you ' au courant.' "
" I'm afraid I cannot act for Herr Kreisler, as I am
leaving Paris early to-morrow morning," Tarr replied.
But the Eussian displayed the same persistence
with him as he had observed him already capable of
with the other people.
At last Tarr said, " I don't mind acting temporarily
for a few minutes, now, until you can find somebody
else. But you must understand that I cannot delay
my journey — you must find a substitute at once."
The Eussian explained with business-like gusto and
precision, having drawn him towards the door
(seemingly to cut off a possible retreat of the enemy),
that it was a grave affair. Kreisler' s honour was
compromised. His friend Otto Kreisler had been
provoked in an extraordinary fashion. Stories had
been put about concerning him, affecting seriously the
sentiments of a girl he knew regarding him ; put
about with that object by another gentleman, also
acquainted with this girl. The Eussian luxuriated
emphatically on this point. Tarr suggested that they
should settle the matter at once, as he had not very
much time. He was puzzled. Surely the girl men-
tioned must be Bertha % If so, had Bertha been
telling more fibs ? Was the Kreisler mystery after
all to her discredit ? Perhaps he was now in the
presence of another rival, existing, unknown to him,
even during his friendship with her.
In this heroic, very solemnly official atmosphere of
ladies' "honour" and the "honour" of gentlemen,
that the little Eussian was creating, Tarr unwillingly
244
remained for some time. Noisy bursts of protest from
other members of the opposing party met the Eussian's
points. " It was all nonsense ; " they shouted ;
" there could be no question of honour here.
Kreisler was a quarrelsome German. He was drunk."
Tarr liked his own farces. But to be drawn into
the service of one of Kreisler' s was a humiliation.
Kreisler, without taking any notice of him, had
turned the tables.
The discussion was interminable. They were now
speaking French. The entire caf6 appeared to be
participating. Several times the principal on the
other side attempted to go, evidently very cross at
the noisy scene. Then Anastasya's name was men-
tioned. Tarr found new interest in the scene.
" You and Herr Kreisler," the Eussian was saying
patiently and distinctly, " exchanged blows, I under-
stand, this afternoon, before this lady. This was as
a result of my friend Herr Kreisler demanding certain
explanations from you which you refused to give.
These explanations had reference to certain stories
you are supposed to have circulated as regards him."
" Circulated — as regards — that chimpanzee you are
conducting about ? "
11 If you please ! By being abusive you cannot
escape. You are accused by my friend of having at
'his expense "
" Expense ? Does he want money ! "
" If you please ! You cannot buy off Herr Kreisler ;
but he might be willing for you to pay a substitute
if you find it — inconvenient-
I find you, bearded idiot ! "
" We can settle all that afterwards. You understand
me! I shall be quite ready ! But at present it is
the affair between you and Herr Kreisler "
In brief, it was the hapless Soltyk that Kreisler had
eventually got hold of, and had just now publicly
smacked, having some hours before smacked him
privately.
245
CHAPTEE II
Kreisler's afternoon encounter with Anastasya and
Soltyk had resembled Tarr's meeting with him and
Bertha. Kreisler had seen Anastasya and his new
cafe friend one day from his window. His reference
to possible nose-pulling was accounted for by this.
The next day he had felt rather like seeing Anastasya
again somewhere. With this object, he had patrolled
the neighbourhood. About four o'clock, having just
bought some cigarettes at the " Berne," he was
standing outside considering a walk in the Luxemburg,
when Fraulein Vasek appeared in this unshunnable
circus of the Quartier du Paradis. Soltyk was with
her. He went over at once. With urbane timidity,
as though they had been alone, he offered his hand.
She looked at Soltyk, smiling. But she showed no
particular signs of wanting to escape. They began
strolling along the Boulevard, Soltyk showing every
sign of impatience. She then stopped.
" Mr. Soltyk and I were just going to have the
' five o'clock ' somewhere," she said.
Soltyk looked pointedly down the Boulevard, as
though that had been an improper piece of information
to communicate to Kreisler.
" If you consent to my accompanying you, Fraulein,
it would give me the greatest pleasure to remain in
your company a little longer."
She laughed. "Where were we going, Louis?
Didn't you say there was a place near here ? "
" There is one over there. But I'm afraid, Fraulein
Vasek, I must leave you. — I have "
" Oh, must you ? I'm sorry."
Soltyk was astonished and mortified. He did not
go, looking at her doubtfully. At this point Kreisler
had addressed him.
" I said nothing, sir, when a moment ago, you
failed to return my salute. I understand you were
going to have tea with Fraulein Vasek. Now you
deprive her suddenly of the pleasure of your company.
246
So there is no further doubt on a certain point. Will
you tell me at once and clearly what objection you
have to me ! "
" I don't wish to discuss things of that sort before
this lady."
" Will you then name a place where they may be
discussed ? I will then take my leave ? "
"I see no necessity to discuss anything with you."
"Ah, you see none. I do. And perhaps it is as
well that Fraulein Vasek should hear. Will you
explain to me, sir, how it is that you have been
putting stories about having reference to me, and to
my discredit, calculated to prejudice people against
me ? Since this lady no doubt has heard some of
your lies, it would be of advantage that you take
them back at once, or else explain yourself."
Before Kreisler had finished, Soltyk said to Anas-
tasya, " I had better go at once, to save you this — "
Then he turned to Kreisler,
" I should have thought you would have had
sufficient decency left "
"Decency, liar? Decency, lying swine ? De-
cency — ? What do you mean ? " said Kreisler,
loudly, in crescendo.
Then he crossed quickly over in front of Anastasya
and smacked Soltyk first smartly on one cheek and
,then on the other.
11 There is liar branded on both your cheeks ! And
if you should not wish to have coward added to your
other epithets, you or your friends will find me at the
following address before the day is out." Kreisler
produced a card and handed it to Soltyk.
Soltyk stared at him, paralysed for the moment at
this outrage, his eyes burning with the sweet intensity
Tarr noticed that evening, taking in the incredible
fact. He got the fact at last. He lifted his cane
and brought it down on Kreisler' s shoulders. Kreisler
snatched it from him, broke it in three and flung it in
his face, one of the splinters making a little gash in
his under lip.
Anastasya had turned round and begun walking
247
away, leaving them alone. Kreisler also waited no
longer, but marched rapidly off in the other direc-
tion.
Soltyk caught Anastasya up, and apologized for
what had occurred, dabbing his lip with a handker-
chief.
Kreisler after this felt himself fairly launched on a
satisfactory little affair. Many an old talent would
come in useful. He acted for the rest of the day with
a gusto of professional interest. For an hour or two
he stayed at home. No one came, however, to call
him to account. Leaving word that he would soon
be back, he left in search of a man to act for him. He
remembered a Eussian he had had some talk with at
the Studio, and whom he had once visited. He was
celebrated for having had a duel and blinded his
opponent. His instinct now led him to this individual,
who has already been seen in action. His qualifica-
tions for a second were quite unique.
Kreisler found him just finishing work. He had
soon explained what he required of him. With great
gravity he set forth his attachment for a " beautiful
girl," the discreditable behaviour of the Eussian in
seeking to prejudice her against him. In fact, he
gave an entirely false picture of the whole situation.
His honour must now be satisfied. He would accept
nothing less than reparation by arms. Such was
Kreisler, but he was himself very cynically. He had
explained this to Volker after the following manner :
" I am a hundred different things ; I am as many
people as the different types of people I have lived
amongst. I am a ' Boulevardier ' (he believed that
on occasion he answered fully to that description),
I am a ' Eapin ' ; I am also a ' Korps-student.' "
In his account of how things stood he had, besides,
led the Eussian to understand that there was more in
it all than it was necessary to say, and, in fact, than
he could say. Whatever attitude Soltyk might take
up, this gentleman too knew, he hinted, that they
had come to the point in their respective relations
towards this " beautiful girl " at which one of them
248
must disappear. In addition, he, Kreisler, had been
grossly insulted in the very presence of the " beautiful
girl " that afternoon. The Eussian's compatriot had
used his cane. These latter were facts that would be
confirmed later, for the physical facts at least could
not be got round by Soltyk.
The Eussian, Bitzenko by name, a solemnly
excitable bourgeois of Petrograd, recognized a situa-
tion after his own heart. Excitement was a food he
seldom got in such quantities, and pretending to listen
to Kreisler a little abstractedly and uncertainly to
start with, he was really from the first very much his
man.
So Kreisler and his newly found henchman, silently
and intently engaged on their evening's business, have
been accounted for. Soltyk had been discovered
some quarter of an hour before Tarr's appearance, and
stared out of countenance for the whole of the time
by Kreisler.
CHAPTEE III
The indignation and flurry subsided ; but the child
of this eruption remained. The Polish party found
/the legacy of the uproar as cold as its cause had been
hot. Bitzenko inspired respect as he scratched his
beard, which smelt of Turkish tobacco, and wrinkled
up imperturbably small grey eyes.
Then, the excitement over, the red mark on Soltyk's
cheek became merely a fact. One or two of his
friends found themselves examining it obliquely, as
a relic, with curiosity.
He had had his face smacked earlier in the day,
as well. How much longer was his face going to go
on being smacked ? Here was this Eussian still
there. There was the chance of an affair. A duel —
a duel, for a change, in our civilized life ; &4tait
une idee.
Who was the girl the Eussian kept mentioning ?
249
Was she that girl he had been telling them about who
had a man-servant ? Kreisler was a Frei-Herr ?
The Bussian had referred to him as " my friend the
Frei-Herr."
" Herr Kreisler does not wish to take further
measures to ensure himself some form of satisfaction,"
the Eussian said monotonously.
" There is always the police for drunken black-
guards," Soltyk answered.
" If you please ! That is not the way ! It is not
usually so difficult to obtain satisfaction from a
gentleman."
" But then I am not a gentleman in the sense that
your friend Kreisler is."
" Perhaps not, but a blow on the face "
The little Eussian said " blow on the face " in a
soft inviting way, as though it were a titbit with
powers of fascination of its own.
" But it is most improper to ask me to stand here
wrangling with you," he next said.
" You please yourself."
" I am merely serving my friend Herr Kreisler.
Will you oblige me by indicating a friend of yours
with whom I can discuss this matter ? "
The waiter who had brought in the card again
approached their table. This time he presented
Soltyk with a note, written on the caf£ paper and
folded in four.
Tarr had been watching what was going on with
as much interest as his ruffled personal dignity would
allow him to take. He did not believe in a duel.
But he wondered what would happen, for he was
certain that Kreisler would not let this man alone
until something had happened. What would he have
done, he asked himself, in Soltyk's place ? He would
have naturally refused to consider the idea of a duel
as a possibility. If you had to fight a duel with
any man who liked to hit you on the head — Kreisler,
moreover, was not a man with whom a duel need be
fought. He was in a weak position in that way, in
spite of the additional blacking on his boots. Tarr
250
himself, of course, could have taken refuge in the
fact that Englishmen do not duel. But what would
have been the next step, this settled, had he been in
Soltyk's shoes ? Kreisler was waiting at the door of
the caf6. If his enemy got up and went out, at the
door he would once more have his face smacked.
His knowledge of Kreisler convinced him that that
face would be smacked all over the quartier, at all
hours of the day, for many days to come. Kreisler,
unless physically overwhelmed, would smack it in
public and in private until further notice. He would
probably spit in it, after having smacked it, occa-
sionally. So Kreisler must be henceforth fought by
his victim wherever met. Would this state of things
justify the use of a revolver ? No. Kreisler should
be maimed. It all should be prepared with great
thoroughness ; exactly the weight of stick, etc. The
French laws would allow quite a bad wound. But
Tarr felt that the sympathetic young Prussian -Pole
would soon have Bitzenko on his hands as well.
Bitzenko was very alarming.
Kreisler, although evicted from the cafe, had been
allowed by the waiters to take up his position on a
distant portion of the terrace. There he sat with his
legs crossed and his eye fixed on the door with a
Scottish solemnity. He was an object of considerable
admiration to the gargons. His coolness and persis-
tence appeared to them amusing and typical. His
solemnity aroused their wonder and respect. He
meant business. He was behaving correctly.
Soltyk opened the note at once.
On it was written in German :
" To the cad Soltyk
" If you make any more trouble about appoint-
ing seconds, and delay the gentlemen who have
consented to act for me, I shall wait for you at
the door and try some further means of rousing
you to honourable action."
A little man sitting next to Soltyk with an eloquent,
8leek lawyer's face took the letter as though it had
251
been a public document and read it. He bent
towards his friend and said :
" What is really the matter with this gentleman % "
Soltyk shrugged his shoulders.
" He's a brute, and he is a little crazy as well. He
wants to pick a quarrel with me, I don't know why."
" He means trouble. Doesn't he want to be taken
seriously, only ? Let his shaggy friend here have a
chat with a friend of yours. He may be a nuisance — "
" What rot ! Why should one/ Stephen % If he
comes for me at the door, let him ! I wish that little
man there would go away. He has annoyed us
quite enough."
" Louis, will you give me permission to speak to
him on your behalf ! "
" If that will give you any satisfaction."
Stephen (Staretsky) got up and put himself at
Bitzenko's disposition. The whole party became
tumultuous at this.
" What the devil are you up to, Stephen ? Let
them alone."
" You're not going ? "
" Tell them to go to heU ! "
" Stephen, come back, you silly fool ! "
Stephen Staretsky smiled at this with a sort of
worldly indulgence. "You don't understand. This
is the best thing to do," he seemed to say.
" Do you want this to last the whole evening % " he
asked the man nearest him.
He followed Bitzenko out, and Tarr followed
Bitzenko.
CHAPTEE IV
They went over to a small, gaudy, quiet cafe oppo-
site, Kreisler watching them, but still with his eye
on the door near at hand.
Tarr was amused now at his position of dummy.
He enjoyed crossing the road under Kreisler's eye,
in his service. The evening's twists were very comic.
252
Imaginative people are easy to convince of the
naturalness of anything ; and the Eussian was the
prophet of the necessity of this affair. Stephen was
not convinced ; but he soon made up his mind that
Bitzenko was either Kreisler's accomplice in some
scheme or at least had made up his mind that there
could only be one ending to the matter.
He went back to the cafd and, sitting down beside
Soltyk again, said :
" I'm afraid I was mistaken, Louis. Your German
means to fight you or else he has some little game.
If you're sure there's nothing in it, you must tell him
and his little Eussian to go to the devil."
While Stephen Staretsky had been away one of
Soltyk's friends told them about Bitzenko.
" Don't you know him, Louis ! Maiewski used to
know him. He lives in one of those big studios, Eue
TJlm, near the Invalides. II a du pognon, il parait."
Soltyk began patting his cheek gently. But his
vanity ached steadily inside.
" What is his name ? " asked another.
" Bitzenko. He once had a duel and blinded a
man."
Soltyk looked up and stopped patting his cheek.
" How ? Blinded him ? " somebody asked.
" Yes, blinded him."
■ The blows began to take effect, the atmosphere
becoming somehow congenial to them. When Stephen
Staretsky delivered his message Soltyk was losing
his self-control. The opportunity of killing this
obnoxious figure offered him so obstinately by
Bitzenko — whom he disliked even more — began to
recommend itself to him. This commis voyageur sent
to press the attractions of destruction had won his
point.
Soltyk had been silent. He had been twisting up
the corners of a newspaper on the table before him,
and appeared struck lazy, into a kind of sullen
sleepiness and detachment resembling despair.
" Ask him," he said suddenly to Staretsky, " what
he wants."
253
" What do you mean ? "
Soltyk answered irritably, " Why, what they want :
what sort of a duel he wants and when." " Duel "
was said as though it were a common object. " Settle
it quickly and let's get all this nonsense over, since
you have begun negotiations."
Stephen Staretsky stared at him.
" You don't mean — ! I have not been negotiating.
I simply "
The others once more clamoured, after a moment
of astonishment.
" You don't mean to say, Louis, you're go-
ing ? "
" What nonsense, what utter nonsense ! What can
you be thinking of ? "
" If Bitzenko comes in again, pay no attention to
him ! What possesses you, Louis ! Whatever
possesses you, Louis ! "
Soltyk looked angrily at his friends without replying.
" Staretsky, arrange that, do you mind t " he
said when the exclamations stopped. " But for
Heaven's sake get it finished quickly. This is
becoming boring."
Staretsky said, leaning on the back of Soltyk's
chair, with authority :
" Don't be absurd, Louis : don't be absurd. You
must refuse to listen to him. All that rot about
libelling and the ' beautiful girl ' : my God, man,
you're not going to take that seriously ? "
" Of course not. But I shall fight the German
clown. I want to. This is becoming ridiculous."
Soltyk had made up his mind. He would never
have armed himself and shot Kreisler in the street.
That would have been too ridiculous. It would have
had the touch of passion and intimacy of a crime
passionel. It would only have been dignified for an
inhabitant of Nevada.
He did not regard this as a duel, but a brawl, ordered
by the rules of " affairs of honour." If a drunken
man or an apache attacked you the best thing to do
would be to fight. If he offered to " fight you fair "
254
— putting it in that way — then that would be the best
thing, too, no doubt.
But Bitzenko really had brought him to this.
Kreisler alone could never have hoped to compass
anything approaching a duel with him.
Stephen Staretsky overwhelmed him with expostu-
lation — even reproaches. His voice rose and fell in
a microscopic stream of close -packed sound. His
face became shiny and the veins appeared in it. He
begged Soltyk to think of his friends ! He gathered
his arguments up in the tips of his fingers in little
nervous bunches and held them under his friend's
nose, as though asking him to smell them. And then,
with a spasm of the body, a vibrating twang on some
deep chord in his throat, he dashed his gathered fingers
towards the floor.
In face of this attack it was impossible, even had
he wished to do so, for Soltyk to reconsider his
decision. The others, too, sat for the most part
watching him.
Bitzenko appeared again. Soltyk became pale at
the sight of this sinister figure, so bourgeois, pre-
possessing, and bearded, with its legend of blindings
and blood and uncanny tenacity as a second.
He turned to a good-looking, sleek, sallow com-
panion at his elbow.
11 Khudin, will you act for me, as Stephen won't t "
Stephen Staretsky rose. A superfine sw^eat mois-
tened his skin. His extraordinary volubility was
tucked away somewhere in him in a flash, in a satisfied
and polished acrobatic, and he faced the Eussian.
Khudin rose at the same time. Bitzenko had won.
Tarr was astonished at the rapid tragic trend of
these farcical negotiations.
" How angry that man must be to do that," he
thought. But he had not been smacked the evening
before ; yet he remembered he had been passably
angry.
255
CHAPTEE V
Otto Kreisler, when he had entered the Caf6
Souchet, had been anxious. His eyes had picked
out Soltyk in a delicate flurry. He had been
afraid that he might escape him. Soltyk looked so
securely bedded in life, and he wanted to wrench
him out. He was not at all bad-tempered at the
moment. He would have extracted him quite
" painlessly " if required. But bleeding and from the
roots, he must come out ! (Br-r-rr. The Bersaker
rage !)
He was quite quiet and well-behaved ; above all
things, well-behaved ! The mood he had happened on
for this particular phase of his action was a virulent
snobbery. He was a painful and blushing snob !
He had, at his last public appearance, taken the r61e
of a tramp-comedian. He had invited every descrip-
tion of slight and indignity. The world seemed to
wish to perpetuate this part for him. But he would
not play ! He refused ! A hundred times, he refused!
He remembered with eagerness that he was a
German gentleman, with a university education ; who
had never worked ; a member of an honourable family I
He remembered each detail socially to his advantage,
realizing methodically things he had from childhood
accepted and never thought of examining. But he
had gone a step further. He had arbitrarily revived
the title of Frei-Herr that, it was rumoured in his
family, his ancestors had borne. With Bitzenko he
had referred to himself as the Frei-Herr Otto Kreisler.
Had the occasion allowed, he would have been very
courteous and gentle with Soltyk, merely to prove
what a gentleman he was ! But, alas, nothing but
brutality (against the grain — the noble grain — as this
went !) would achieve his end.
And the end was still paramount. His snobbery
was the outcome of this end, of his end. It was,
in this obsession of disused and disappearing life,
the wild assertion of vitality, the clamour for recog-
256
nition that life and the beloved self were still there,
that brought out the reeking and brand-new snob.
He was almost dead (he had promised his father his
body for next month, and must be punctual), but
people already had begun treading on him and striking
matches on his boots. As to fighting with a man
who was practically dead, to all intents and purposes,
one mass of worms— a worm, in short— that was not
to be expected of anybody.
So he became a violent snob.
It was Soltyk's rude behaviour on the day before
m the presence of Anastasya that had set him raving
on this subject. The Eussian Pole was up against a
raving snob whose social dignity he had wounded.
Bitzenko and Kreisler came out to get Louis Soltyk
like two madmen, full of solemn method and with
miraculous solidarity. Their schemes and energies
flew direct from mind to mind, without the need for
words. Bitzenko with his own hand had brushed
the back of Kreisler's coat ; on tiptoe doing this
he looked particularly childlike. They were together
there in Kreisler's room before they started like two
little boys dressing up in preparation for some mischief.
Kreisler had fixed his eyes on Soltyk from his table
with alert offensiveness. The prosperous appearance
of the Poles annoyed him deeply. Their watches
were all there, silk handkerchiefs slipped up their
sleeves ; they looked sleek and new. A gentle flame
of social security and ease danced in their eyes and
gestures. He was out in the dark, they were in a
lighted room ! He wished their fathers' affairs might
deteriorate and their fortunes fall to pieces ; that
their watches could be stolen, and their restaurant-
tick attacked by insidious reports ! And as he
watched them he felt more and more an outcast,
shabbier and shabbier. He saw himself the little
official in a German provincial town that his father's
letter foreshadowed.
J One or two of them pointed him out to Soltyk, and
it was a wounding laugh of the latter's that brought
him to his feet.
257 B
As he was slapping his enemy he woke up out of
his nightmare. He was like a sleeper having the first
inkling of his solitude when he is woken by the climax
of his dream, still surrounded by tenacious influences.
But had any one struck him then, the blow would
have had as little effect as a blow aimed at a waking
man by a phantom of his sleep. The noise around
him was a receding accompaniment.
Then he felt hypnotized by Soltyk's quietness.
The sweet white of the face made him sick. To.
overcome this he stepped forward again to strike
the dummy once more, and then it moved suddenly.
As he raised his hand his glasses almost slipped off,
and at that point he was seized by the g argons.
Hurried out on to the pavement, he could still see,
at the bottom of a huge placid mirror just inside the
cafe, the wriggling backs of the band of Poles. Drawing
out his card-case, he had handed the waiter a visiting-
card. The waiter at first refused it. He turned his
head aside vaguely, as a dog does when doubtful
about some morsel offered him ; then he took it.
Kreisler saw in the mirror the tearing up of his card.
Fury once more — not so much because it was a new
slight as that he feared his only hope, Soltyk, might
escape him.
The worry of this hour or so in which Bitzenko
was negotiating told on him so much that when at
last his emissary announced that an arrangement .
had been come to in the sense he wished, he questioned
him incredulously. He felt hardly any satisfaction,
reaction setting in immediately.
Bitzenko went back to Kreisler's door with him
and, promising to return within half an hour, left
him. Tarr having, as he had stipulated, left when
the talking was over, Bitzenko first went in search
of a friend to serve as second. The man he decided
on was already in bed, and at once, half asleep,
without preparation of any sort, consented to do
what was asked of him.
" Will you be a second in a duel to-morrow morning
at half -past six ? "
258
" Yes."
"At half -past six? "
" Yes." And after a minute or two, " Is it you ? "
M No, a German friend of mine."
M All right."
" You will have to get up at five."
Bitzenko's friend was a tail, powerfully built young
Eussian painter, who, with his great bow-legs, would
take up some straggling and extravagantly twisted
pose of the body and remain immobile for minutes
together, with an air of ridiculous detachment. This
combination of a tortured, restless attitude, and at
the same time statuesque tendency, suggested some-
thing like a contemplative acrobat or contortionist.
A mouth of almost anguished attention and little calm
indifferent eyes, produced similar results in the face.
Bitzenko's next move was to go to his rooms, put
a gently ticking little clock, with an enormous alarum
on the top, under his arm, and then walk round once
more to Otto Kreisler's. He informed his friend of
these last arrangements made in his interests. He
suggested that it would be better for him to sleep
there that night, to save time in the morning. In
short, he attached himself to Kreisler's person. Until
it were deposited in the large cemetery near by, or
else departed from the Gare du Nord in a deal box
for burial in Germany, it should not leave him. In
the event of victory, and he being no longer respon-
sible for it, it should disappear as best it could.
The possible subsequent conflict with the police was
not without charm for Bitzenko. He regarded the
police force, its functions and existence, as a pretext
for adventure.
The light was blown out. Bitzenko curled himself
up on the floor. He insisted on this. Kreisler must
be fresh in the morning and do him justice. The
Eussian could hear the bed shaking for some time.
Kreisler was trembling violently. A sort of exulta-
tion at the thought of his success caused this nervous
attack. He had been quite passive since he had heard
that all was well.
259
At about half-past four in the morning Kreisler
was dreaming of Volker and a pact he had made with
him in his sleep never to divulge some secret, which
there was never any possibility of his doing in any case,
as he had completely forgotten what it was. He was
almost annihilated by a terrific explosion. With his
eyes suddenly wide open, he saw the little clock
quivering in the mantelpiece beneath its large alarum.
When it had stopped Kreisler could hardly believe
his ears, as though this sound had been going to
accompany life, for that day at least, as a destructive
and terrifying feature. Then he saw the Eussian,
already on his feet. His white and hairy little body
had apparently risen energetically out of the scratch
bedclothes simultaneously with the " going off " of
his clock, as though it were a mechanism set for the
same hour.
They both dressed without a word. Kreisler wrote
a short letter to his father, entrusting it to his second.
Kreisler's last few francs were to be spent on a
taxi to take them to the place arranged on, outside
the fortifications.
They found the other second sound asleep. Bitzenko
more or less dressed him. They set out in their taxi
to the rendezvous by way of the Bois.
The chilly and unusual air of the early morning,
the empty streets and shuttered houses, destroyed
all feeling of reality of what was happening for
Kreisler. Had the duel been a thing to fear it would
have had an opposite effect. His errand did not
appear as an inflexible reality, either, following upon
events that there was no taking back. It was a
whim, a caprice, they were pursuing, as though, for
instance, they had woken up in the early morning
and decided to go fishing. They were carrying it
out with a dogged persistency, with which our whims
are often served.
He kept his thought away from Soltyk. He seemed
a very long way off ; it would be fatiguing for the
mind to go in search of him.
When the scientist's nature, with immense fugue,
260
has induced a man to marry some handsome young
lady — this feat accomplished, Nature leaves him
practically alone, only coming back to give him a
prod from time to time — assured that, like a little
trickling stream, his life will go steadily on in the
bed gauged for it by this upheaval. Nature, in
Kreisler's case, had done its work of another descrip-
tion. But she had left the Eussian with him to see
that all was carried out according to her wishes.
Kreisler's German nature that craved discipline, a
course marked out, had got more even than it asked
for. It had been presented with a mimic Fate.
But Bitzenko evidently took his pleasure morosely.
The calm and assurance of the evening before had
given place to a brooding humour. He was only
restored to a silent and intense animation on hearing
his " Browning " speak. He produced this some-
where in the Bois, and insisted on his principal
having a little practice as they had plenty of time
to spare. This was a very imprudent step. It
might draw attention to their movements. Kreisler
proved an excellent shot. Then the Eussian himself,
with impassible face, emptied a couple of chambers
into a tree-trunk. He put his " Browning " back
into his pocket hastily after this, as though startled
at his own self-indulgence.
A piece of waste land, on the edge of a wood,
well hidden on all sides, had been chosen for the duel.
The enemy was not on the ground. Kreisler's
passivity still subsisted. So far he had felt that
Accident had been dealt a shrewd blow and brought
to its knees. He was in good hands. Until this
was all over he had nothing to worry about.
Fresh compartment. The duel became for him,
as he stood on the damp grass, conventional. It
was a duel like another. He was seeking reparation
by arms. He had been libelled and outraged. " A
beautiful woman " was at the bottom of it. Life
had no value for him ! Tant pis for the other man
who had been foolhardy enough to cross his path.
His coat-collar turned up, he looked sternly towards
261
the road, his moustaches blowing a little in the wind.
He asked Bitzenko for a cigarette. That gentleman
did not smoke, but the other Eussian produced a
khaki cigarette with a long mouthpiece. He struck
a light. As Kreisler lit his cigarette at it, his hand
resting against the other's, a strange feeling shot
through him at the contact of this flesh. He mois-
tened his lips and spat out a piece of the mouth-
piece he had bitten through.
The hour arranged came round and there was still
no sign of anybody. The possibility of a hitch in
the proceedings dawned on Kreisler. Personal
animosity for Soltyk revived. That idea of obsti-
nacy in a caprice, instead of merely carrying out
something prearranged and unavoidable, despite his
passivity, had proved really the wakefulness of his
will. He looked towards his companions, alone there
on the ground of the encounter. They were an
unsatisfactory pair, after all. They did not look a
winning team. He reproached himself for having hit
just on this Eussian for assistance.
Bitzenko, on the other hand, was deep in thought.
He was rehearsing his part of second. The duel in
which he had blinded his adversary was a figment of
his boyish brain, confided with tears in his voice one
evening to a friend. His only genuine claim to
activity was that, in a perfect disguise, he had
assisted the peasants of his estate to set fire to his,
little Manor House during the revolution of 1906
for the fun of the thing and in an access of revolu-
tionary sentiment. Afterwards he had assisted the
police with information in the investigation of the
affair, also anonymously. All this he kept to himself.
He referred to his past in Eussia in a way that con-
jured up more luridness than the flames of his little
chateau (which did not burn at all well) warranted.
Bitzenko was quite in his element climatically ;
whereas Kreisler felt his hands getting so cold that
he thought they might fail him in the duel.
But a car was heard beyond the trees on the Paris
road. This sound in the listless blur of nature was
262
masterful in its significance. It struck steadily and
at once into brutish apathy. It so plainly knew
what it wanted. It had perhaps outstripped men in
that. Men in their soft bodies still contained the
apathy of the fields. Their mind had burst out of
them and taken these crawling pulps up on its rigid
back.
It was Staretsky's car. With its load of hats it
drew up. The four members of the other party came
on to the field, the fourth a young Polish doctor.
They walked quickly. Bitzenko went to meet them.
Staretsky protested energetically that the duel must
not proceed.
11 It must — not — go — on ! Should anything happen
— you must allow me to say, should anything happen
—the blood of whoever falls will be at your door ! "
But he felt all the same that the prospect of having
a little pond of blood at his door was an alluring one
for Bitzenko.
" Has not your principal seen that in accepting
this duel, M. Soltyk had proved his respect for Herr
Kreisler's claim ? The attitude your principal attri-
buted to him is not his attitude "
Bitzenko stiffened.
" Is there anything in Herr Kreisler that would
justify M. Soltyk in considering that he was con-
' descending — — ? "
The little Eussian kept up his cunning and baffling
wrangle. Soltyk's eyes steadily avoided Kreisler's
person. He hoped this ridiculous figure might make
some move enabling them to abandon the duel.
But the idea of a favour coming from such a quarter
was repellent. His stomach had been out of order
the day before — he wondered if it would surge up,
disgrace him. He might be sick at any moment.
He saw himself on tiptoe, in an ignominious spasm,
the proceedings held up, friends and enemies watching.
He kept his eyes off Kreisler as a man on board ship
keeps his eyes off a dish of banana fritters or a poached
egg.
Kreisler, from twenty yards off, stared through his
263
glasses at the group of people lie had assembled, as
though he had been examining the enemy through
binoculars. Obediently, erect and still, he appeared
rather amazed at what was occurring. Soltyk, in
rear of the others, struggled with his bile. He slipped
into his mouth a sedative tablet, oxide of bromium
and heroin. This made him feel more sick. For
a few moments he stood still in horror, expecting to
vomit at every moment. The blood rushed to his
head and covered the back of his neck with a warm
liquid sheet.
Kreisler's look of surprise deepened. He had seen
Soltyk slipping something into his mouth, and was
puzzled and annoyed, like a child. What was he up
to ? Poison was the only guess he could give. What
on earth ?
Having taken part in many mensurs he knew that
for this very serious duel his emotions were hardly
adequate. His nervous system was as quiescent as
a corpse's. He became offended with his phlegm.
All this instinctive resistance to the idea of Death,
the indignity of being nothing, was rendered empty
by his premature insensitiveness. He tried to
visualize and feel. In a few minutes he might be
dead ! That had so little effect that he almost
laughed.
Then he reflected that that man over there might
in a few minutes be wiped out. He would become a
disintegrating mess, uglier than any vitriol or syphilis
could make him. All that organism he, Kreisler,
would be turning into dung, as though by magic.
He, Kreisler, is insulted. The sensations and energies
of that man deny him equality of existence. He,
Kreisler, lifts his hand, presses a little bar of steel,
and the other is swept away into the earth. Heaven
knows where the insulting spirit goes to. But the
physical disfigurement at least is complete. He went
through it laboriously. But it fell flat as well. He
was too near the event to benefit by his fancy.
Possibilities were weakened by the nearness of
Certainty.
264
His momentary resentment with Bitzenko survived,
and lie next became annoyed at being treated like
an object, as lie felt it. He was not deliberately
conscious of much. But, try as he would to elude
the disgraces and besmirchings of death, people
refused to treat him as anything but a sack of
potatoes.
There four or five men had been arguing about him
for the last five minutes, and they had not once
looked his way. But clearly Bitzenko was defending
his duel.
Why should Bitzenko go on disposing of him in
this fashion ? He took everything for granted ; he
never so much as appealed to him, even once. Had
Bitzenko been commissioned to hustle him out of
existence ?
But Soltyk. There was that fellow again slipping
something into his mouth ! A cruel and fierce
sensation of mixed real and romantic origin rose
hotly round his heart. He loved that man ! But
because he loved him he wished to plunge a sword
into him, to plunge it in and out and up and down !
Why had pistols been chosen ?
He would let him off for two pins ! He would let
him off if Yes ! He began pretending to
himself that the duel might after all not take place.
That was the only way he could get anything out of it.
He laughed ; then shouted out in German :
" Give me one ! "
They all looked round. Soltyk did not turn, but
the side of his face became crimson.
Kreisler felt a surge of active passion at the sight
of the blood in his face.
11 Give me one," Kreisler shouted again, putting out
the palm of his hand, and laughing in a thick, in-
sulting, hearty way. He was now a Knabe. He was
young and cheeky. His last words had been said
with quick cleverness. The heavy coquetting was
double-edged.
11 What do you mean ? " Bitzenko called back.
11 I want a jujube. Ask Herr Soltyk ! "
265
They all turned towards the other principal to the
duel, standing some yards on the other side of them.
Head thrown back and eyes burning, Soltyk gazed
at Kreisler. It was genuine, but not very strong.
If killing could be embodied in the organ that sees —
a new function of expression — a perfect weapon would
exist. Only the intensest expression being effective,
such spiritual blasting powers would be a solution of
the arbitrary decisions of force. Words, glances,
music are at present as indirect as hands and cannons.
Such music might be written, however, that no fool,
hearing it, could survive. Whether it throttled him
in a spasm of disgust or of shame is immaterial.
Soltyk's battery was too conventional to pierce the
layers of putrifying tragedy, Kreisler' s bulwark. It
played to the limit of its power. His cheeks were a
dull red : his upper lip was stretched tightly over the
gums. The white line of teeth made his face look as
though he were laughing. He stamped his foot on
the ground with the impetuous grace of a Eussian
dancer, and started walking hurriedly up and down.
He glared at his seconds as well, but although sick
with impatience made no protest.
A peal of drawling laughter came from Kreisler :
" Sorry ! Sorry ! My mistake," he shouted.
Bitzenko came over and asked Kreisler if he still,
for his part, was of the same mind, that the duel
should go on. The principal stared impenetrably at
the second.
" If such an arrangement can be come to as should
— er " he began slowly.. He was going to play
with Bitzenko too, against whom his humour had
shifted. A look of deepest dismay appeared in the
Eussian's face.
" I don't understand. You mean ? "
" I mean, that if the enemy and you can find a
basis for understanding " and Kreisler went on
staring at Bitzenko with his look of false surprise.
" You seem very anxious for me to fight, Herr
Bitzenko," he then said furiously. With a laugh at
Bitzenko's miserable face and evident pleasure at his
266
quick-change temperamental, facial agility, he left
him, walking towards the other assistants.
Addressing Staretsky, his face radiating affability,
stepping with caution, as though to avoid puddles,
he said :
"I am willing to forgo the duel at once on one
condition. If Herr Soltyk will give me a kiss, I will
forgo the duel ! "
He smiled archly and expectantly at Staretsky.
" I don't know what you mean ! "
" Why, a kiss. You know what a kiss is, my dear
sir."
" I shall consider you out of your mind, if "
" That is my condition."
Soltyk had come up behind Staretsky.
" What is your condition ? " he asked loudly.
Kreisler stepped forward so quickly that he was
beside him before Soltyk could move. With one hand
coaxingly extended towards his arm, he was saying
something, too softly for the others to hear.
He had immobilized everybody by his rapid action.
Surprise had shot their heads all one way. They
stood, watching and listening, screwed into astonish-
ment as though by deft fingers.
His soft words, too, must have carried sleep. Their
insults and their honey clogged up his enemy. A hand
had been going up to strike. But at the words it
stopped dead. So much new matter for anger had
been poured into the ear that it wiped out all the
earlier impulse. Action must be again begun right
down from the root.
Kreisler thrust his mouth forward amorously, his
body in the attitude of the eighteenth -century gallant,
as though Soltyk had been a woman.
The will broke out frantically from the midst of
bandages and a bulk of suddenly accruing fury.
Soltyk tore at himself first, writhing upright, a
statue's bronze softening, suddenly, with blood. He
became white and red by turns. His blood, one heavy
mass, hurtled about in him, up and down, like a
sturgeon in a narrow tank.
267
All the pilules he had taken seemed acting seda-
tively against the wildness of his muscles. The
bromium fought the blood.
His hands were electrified. Will was at last dashed
all over him, an Arctic douche. The hands flew at
Kreisler's throat. His nails made six holes in the
flesh and cut into the tendons beneath. Kreisler
was hurled about. He was pumped backwards and
. forwards. His hands grabbed a mass of hair ; as a
man slipping on a precipice gets hold of a plant.
Then they gripped along the coat-sleeves, connecting
him with the engine he had just overcharged with
fuel. A sallow white, he became puffed and exhausted.
" Acha — acha — " a noise, the beginning of a word,
came from his mouth. He sank on his knees. A
notion of endless violence filled him. " Tchun— tchun
— tchun — tchun — tchun — tchun ! " He fell on his
back, and the convulsive arms came with him. The
strangling sensation at his neck intensified.
Meanwhile a breath of absurd violence had smitten
everywhere.
Staretsky had said :
" That crapule is beneath contempt ! Pouah ! —
I refuse to act. Whatever induced us "
Bitzenko had begun a discourse. Staretsky turned
on him, shrieking, " Foute-moi la paix, imbecile ! "
^ At this Bitzenko rapped him smartly on the cheek.
Staretsky, who spent his mornings sparring with a
negro pugilist, gave him a blow between the eyes,
which laid him out insensible.
Bitzenko's friend, interfering when he saw this,
seized Staretsky round the waist, and threw him
down, falling with him.
The doctor and the other second, Wenceslas Khudin,
went to separate Soltyk and Kreisler, scuffling and
exhorting. The field was filled with cries, smacks,
and harsh movements.
This Slav chaos gradually cleared up.
Soltyk was pulled off ; Staretsky and the young
Eussian were separated. Bitzenko once more was on
268
his feet. Then they were all dusting their trousers,
arranging their collars, picking up their hats.
Kreisler stood stretching his neck to right and left
alternately. His collar was torn open ; blood
trickled down his chest. He had felt weak and unable
to help himself against Soltyk.
Actual fighting appeared a contingency outside the
calculations or functioning of his spirit. Brutal by
rote and in the imagination, if action came too
quickly before he could inject it with his dream, his
forces were disconnected. This physical melee had been
a disturbing interlude. He was extremely offended
at it. His eyes rested steadily and angrily on Soltyk.
This attempt on his part to escape into physical and
secondary things he must be made to pay for ! He
staggered a little, with the dignity of the drunken man.
His glasses were still on his nose. They had
weathered the storm, tightly riding his face, because
of Soltyk's partiality for his neck.
Staretsky took Soltyk by the arm.
" Come along, Louis. Surely you don't want any
more of it ? Let's get out of this. I refuse to act
as second. You can't fight without seconds ! "
^ Soltyk was panting, his mouth opening and shut-
ting. He first turned this way, then that. His
action was that of a man avoiding some importunity.
" C'est bien, c'est bien ! " he gasped in French.
" Je sais. Laisse-moi."
All his internal disorganization was steadily claim-
ing his attention.
" Mais d6peche-toi done ! Filons. Nous avons
plus rien a faire ici." Staretsky slipped his arm
through his. Half supporting him, he began urging
him along towards the car. Soltyk, stumbling and
coughing, allowed himself to be guided.
Khudin and the doctor had been talking together,
as the only two men on the field in full possession of
their voices and breath. When they saw their friends
moving off, they followed.
Bitzenko, recuperating rapidly, started after them.
269
Kreisler saw all this at first with indifference.
He had taken his handkerchief out and was dabbing
his neck. Then suddenly, with a rather plaintive but
resolute gait, he ran after his second, his eye fixed on
the retreating Poles.
" Hi ! A moment ! Your Browning. Give me
your Browning ! " he said hoarsely. His voice had
been driven back into the safer depths of his body.
It was a new and unconvincing one.
Bitzenko did not appear to understand.
Kreisler plucked the revolver out of his pocket
with the deftness of an animal. There was a report.
He was firing in the air.
Staretsky had faced quickly round, dragging
Soltyk. Kreisler was covering them with the
Browning.
" Halt ! " he shouted. " Stop there ! Not so
quickly ! I will shoot you like a dog if you will not
fight ! "
Still holding them up, he ordered Bitzenko to take
over to them one of the revolvers provided for the duel.
" That will be murder ! If you assist in this, sir,
you will be participating in a murder ! Stop this "
Staretsky was jabbering at Bitzenko, his arm
through his friend's. Soltyk stood wiping his face
with his hand, his eyes on the ground. His breath
came heavily, and he kept shifting his feet.
Bitzenko's tall young Bussian stood in a twisted
attitude, a gargoyle Apollo. His mask of peasant
tragedy had broken into a slight smile.
" Move and I fire ! Move and I fire ! " Kreisler
kept shouting, moving up towards them, with stealthy
grogginess. He kept shaking the revolver and
pointing at them with the other hand, to keep them
alive to the reality of the menace.
" Don't touch the pistols, Louis ! " said Staretsky,
as Bitzenko came over with his leather dispatch -case.
He let go of Soltyk's arm and folded his own.
" Don't touch them, Louis. They daren't shoot ! "
Louis appeared apathetic both as to the pistols
and the good advice.
270
11 Leave him both," Kreisler called, his revolver
still trained on Staretsky and Soltyk.
Bitzenko put them both down, a foot away from
Soltyk, and walked hurriedly out of the zone of
fire.
" Will you take up one of those pistols, or both ? "
Kreisler said.
11 Kindly point that revolver somewhere else, and
allow us to go ! " Staretsky said loudly.
11 I'm not speaking to you, pig-face ! It's you
I'm addressing. Take up that pistol ! "
He was now five or six yards from them.
" Herr Soltyk is unarmed ! The pistols you want
him to take only have one charge. Yours has twelve.
In any case it would be murder ! "
Kreisler walked up to them. He was very white,
much quieter, and acted with effort. He stooped
down to take up one of the pistols. Staretsky aimed
a blow at his head. It caught him just in front of
the ear, on the right cheek-bone. He staggered
sideways, tripped, and fell. The moment he felt the
blow he pulled the trigger of the Browning, which
still pointed towards his principal adversary. Soltyk
threw his arms up : Kreisler was struggling towards
his feet : he fell face forwards on top of him.
, Kreisler thought this was a new attack. He seized
Soltyk's body round the middle, rolling over on top
of it. It was quite limp. He then thought the other
man had fainted ; ruptured himself ? He drew
back quickly. Two hands grasped him and flung
him down on his stomach. This time his glasses
went. Scrambling after them, he remembered his
Browning, which he had dropped. He shot his hands
out to left and right — forgetting his glasses — to
recover the Browning. He felt that a blow was a
long time in coming.
" He's dead ! He's dead ! He's dead ! "
Staretsky's voice, announcing that in French, he
heard at the same time as Bitzenko's saying :
" What are you looking for ? Come quickly ! "
11 Where is the Browning t " he asked. At that
271
moment his hand struck his glasses. He put them
on and got to his feet.
At Bitzenko's words he had a feeling of a new order
of things having set in, that he remembered having
experienced once or twice before in life. They came
in a fresh surprising tone. It was as though they
were the first words he had heard that day. They
seemed to imply a sudden removal, a journey, novel
conditions.
" Come along, I've got the Browning. There's no
time to lose." It was all over ; he must embrace
practical affairs. The Eussian's voice was business-
like. Something had finished for him, too. Kreisler
saw the others standing in a peaceful group ; the
doctor was getting up from beside Soltyk.
Staretsky rushed over to Kreisler, and shook his
fist in his face and tried to speak. But his mouth
was twisted down at the corners, and he could hardly
see. The palms of his hands pressed into each of his
eyes, the next moment he was sobbing, walking back
to his friends.
Bitzenko's bolt was shot. Kreisler had been un-
satisfactory. All had ended in a silly accident, which
might have awkward consequences for his second.
It was hardly a real corpse at all.
But something was sent to console him. The
police had got wind of the duel. Bitzenko, his
compatriot and Kreisler were walking down the field,
intending to get into the road at the farther end,
and walk to the nearest station. The taxi had been
sent away, Kreisler having no more money, and
Bitzenko's feeling in the matter being that should
Kreisler fall, a corpse can aways find some senti-
mental soul to look after it. And there was always
the Morgue, dramatic and satisfactory.
They were already half-way along the field when a car
passed them on the other side of the hedge at full tilt.
The Eussian was once more in his element. His
face cleared. He looked ten years younger. In the
occupants of the car he had recognized members of
the police force !
272
Calling "Bun!" to Kreisler he took to his heels,
followed by his young fellow-second, whose neck
shot in and out, and whose great bow-legs could
almost be heard twanging as he ran. They reached a
hedge, ran along the farther side of it. Bitzenko was
bent double as though to escape a rain of bullets.
Eventually he was seen careering across an open
space quite near the river, which lay a couple of
hundred yards beyond the lower end of the field.
There he lay ambushed for a moment, behind a shrub.
Then he darted forward again, and eventually dis-
appeared along the high road in a cloud of dust.
His athletic young friend made straight for the
railway station, which he reached without incident
and returned at once to Paris. Kreisler conformed
to Bitzenko's programme of flight. He scrambled
through the hedge, crossed the road and escaped
almost unnoticed.
The truth was that the Eussian had attracted the
attention of the police to such an extent by his striking
flight, that without a moment's hesitation they had
bolted helter-skelter after him. They contented
themselves with a parting shout or two at Kreisler.
Duelling was a very venial offence ; capture in these
cases was not a matter of the least moment. But
they were so impressed by the Eussian's businesslike
way of disappearing that they imagined this must
have been a curiously immoral sort of duel. That
he was the principal they did not doubt for a moment.
So they went after him in full cry, rousing two or
three villagers in their passage, who followed at their
heels, pouring with frantic hullabaloo in the direction
of Paris. Bitzenko, however, with great resourceful-
ness, easily outwitted them. He crossed the Seine
near St. Cloud, and got back to Paris in time to
read the afternoon newspaper account of the duel
and flight with infantile solemnity and calm.
273
CHAPTEE VI
Five days after this, in the morning, Otto Kreisler
mounted the steps of the police-station of a small
town near the German frontier. He was going to give
himself up.
Bitzenko had pictured his principal, in the event
of his succeeding against Soltyk, seeking rapidly by
train the German frontier, disguised in some extra-
ordinary manner. Had the case been suggested to
him of a man in this position without sufficient money
in his pocket to buy a ticket, he would then have
imagined a melodramatic figure hurrying through
France, dodging and dogged by the police, defying
a thousand perils. Whether Kreisler were still under
the spell of the Eussian or not, this was the course,
more or less, he took. He could be trusted not to go
near Paris. That city dominated all his maledictions.
The police disturbing the last act of his sanguinary
farce was a similar contretemps to Soltyk's fingers in
his throat. At the last moment everything had
begun to go wrong. He had not prepared for it,
because, as though from cunning, the world had shown
no tendency up till then to interfere.
Soltyk had died when his back was turned, so to
speak. He got the contrary of comfort out of the
thought that he could claim to have done the deed. ,
The police had rushed in and broken things off short,
swept everything away, ended the banquet in a
brutal raid. A deep sore, a shocked and dislocated
feeling remained in Kreisler's mind. He had been
hurried so much ! He had never needed leisure,
breathing space, so much. The disaster of Soltyk's
death was raw on him ! Had he been given time —
only a little time — he might have put that to rights.
(This sinister regret could only imply a possible
mutilation of the corpse.)
A dead man has no feeling. He can be treated as an
object and hustled away. But a living man needs
time ! — time !
274
Does not a living man need so much time to develop
his movements, to lord it with his thoughtful body,
to unroll his will ? Time is what he needs !
As a tramp being hustled away from a cafe protests,
at each jerk the waiter gives him, that he is a human
being, probably a free human being — yes, probably
free ; so Kreisler complained to his fate that he was
a living man, that he required time — that above
all it was time he needed — to settle his affairs and
withdraw from life. But his fate was a harsh
Prussian gendarme. He whined and blustered to no
effect.
He was superstitious as well in the usual way about
this decease. In his spiritless and brooding tramp he
questioned if it were not he that had died and not
Soltyk, and if it were not his ghost that was now
wandering off nowhere in particular.
One franc and a great many coppers remained to
him. As he jumped from field to road and road to
field again, in his flight, they rose and fell in a little
leaden wave in his pocket, breaking dully on his thigh.
This little wave rose and fell many times, till he began
to wait for it, and its monotonous grace. It was like
a sigh. It heaved and clashed down in a foiled way.
He spent the money that evening on a meal in a
village. The night was dry and was passed in an
empty barge. Next day, at four in the afternoon, he
arrived at Meaux. Here he exchanged his entire
wardrobe for a very shabby workman's outfit, gaining
seven francs and fifty centimes on the exchange.
He caught the early train for Eheims, travelling thirty -
five kilometres of his journey at a sou a kilometre, got
a meal near the station, and took another ticket to
Verdun. Believing himself nearer the frontier than
he actually was, he set out on foot. At the next
large town, Pontlieux, he had too hearty a meal. He
had exhausted his stock of money long before the
frontier was reached. For two days he had eaten
hardly anything ; and tramped on in a dogged and
careless spirit.
The nearness of the German frontier began to rise
275
like a wall in front of him. This question had to be
answered : Did he want to cross it after all ?
His answer was to mount the steps of the local
gendarmerie.
His Prussian severity of countenance, now that he
was dressed in every point like a vagabond, without
hat and his hair disordered, five days' beard on his
chin — this sternness of the German warrior gave him
the appearance of a scowling ruffian. The agent on
duty, who barred his passage brutally before the door
of the inner office, scowling too, classed him as a
depraved cut-throat vagabond, and considered his
voluntary entrance into the police-station as an act
not only highly suspicious and unaccountable in
itself, but of the last insolence.
" Qu'est-ce qu'il te faut 1 "
"Foir le Commissaire," returned Kreisler.
" Tu ne peux pas le voir. II n'y est pas."
A few more laconic sentences followed, the agent
reiterating sulkily that the magistrate was not there.
But he was eyeing Kreisler doubtfully and turning
something over in his mind.
The day before, two Germans had been arrested
in the neighbourgood as spies, and were now locked up
in this building until further evidence should be
collected on the affair. It is extremely imprudent
for a German to loiter on the frontier on entering
France. It is much wiser for him to push on at
once — neither looking to right nor left — pretending
especially not to notice hills, unnatural military-
looking protuberances, ramparts, etc. — to hurry on
as rapidly as possible to the interior. But the two
men in question were carpenters by profession, and
both carried huge foot-rules in their pockets. The
local authorities on this discovery were in a state of
the deepest consternation. They shut them up,
with their implements, in the most inaccessible
depths of the local police-station. And it was in the
doorway of this building — all the intermittant in-
habitants of which were in a state of hysterical
speculation, that Kreisler had presented himself.
276
The agent, who had recognized a German by his
accent and manner, at last turned and disappeared
through the door, telling him to wait. He reappeared
with several superiors. All of them crowded in the
doorway and surveyed Kreisler blankly. One asked
in a voice of triumphant suspicion :
" And what are you doing there, my good fellow ? "
" I had tuel, and killed the man ; I have walked
for more days "
" Yes, we know all about that ! "
" So you had a duel, eh ? " asked another, and they
all laughed with nervous suddenness at the picture of
this vagabond defending his honour at twenty paces.
" Well, is that all you have to say ? "
" I would eat."
" Yes ! your two friends inside also have big
appetites. But come to the point. Have you
anything to tell us about your compatriots inside
there ? "
Since his throttling by Soltyk, Kreisler had changed.
He knew he was beaten. There was nothing to do
but to die. His body ran to the German frontier as a
chicken's does down a yard, headless, from the
block.
Kreisler did not understand the official. He
muttered that he was hungry. He could hardly
stand. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, he
stood with his eyes on the ground. He was making
himself at home ! " What a nerve ! "
" Va t'en ! If you don't want to tell us anything,
clear out. Be quick about it ! A pretty lot of
trouble you cursed Germans are giving us. You'll
none of you speak when it comes to the point. You
all stand staring like boobies. But that won't pay
here. Off you go ! "
They all turned back into the office, and slammed
the door. The agent stood before it again, looking
truculently at Kreisler, He said :
" Passez |votre chemin ! Don't stand gaping
there ! "
Then, giving him a shake, he hustled him to the
277
top of the steps. A parting shove sent him stagger-
ing down into the road.
Kreisler walked on for a little. Eventually, in a
quiet square, near the entrance to the town, he fell
on a bench, drew his legs up and went to sleep.
At ten o'clock, the town lethargically retiring, all
its legs moving slowly, like a spent insect, heavily
boarding itself in, an agent came gradually along the
square. Kreisler's visit to the police-station was not
known to this one. He stopped opposite the sleeping
Kreisler, surveying him with lawful indignation.
" En voila un joli gigolo ! " He swayed energeti-
cally up to him.
" Eh ! le copain ! Tu voudrais coucher a la belle
etoile I "
He shook him.
" Oh, la ! Tu ne peux pas dormir ici ! Houp !
D6peches-toi. Mets-toi debout ! "
Kreisler responded only by a tired movement as
though to bury his skull in the bench. A more
violent jerk rolled him on the ground.
He woke up and protested in German, with a sort
of dull asperity. He got on to his feet.
At the sound of the familiar gutturals of the neigh-
bouring Empire, the agent became differently angry.
Kreisler stood there, muttering partly in German and
partly in French ; he was very tired. He was telling
bitterly of his attempt to get into the police-station,
and of his inhospitable reception. The agent under-
stood several words of German — notably " ja " and
" lager beer " and " essen." The consequence was
that he always thought he understood more than was
really said in that language. However much might
be actually intended on any given occasion by the
words of that profound and teeming tongue, it could
never equal in scope, intensity, and meaning what he
heard.
So he was convinced that Kreisler was threatening
an invasion, and scoffed loudly in reply. He under-
stood Kreisler to assert that the town in which they
stood would soon belong to Germany, and that he
278
would then sleep, not on a bench, but in the best bed
their dirty little hole of a village could offer. He
approached him threateningly. And eventually the
functionary distinctly heard himself apostrophized
as a " sneaking ' flic '," a " dirty peeler." At that
he laid his hand on Kreisler's collar, and threw him
in the direction of the police-station. He had mis-
calculated the distance. Kreisler, weak for want of
food, fell at his feet ; but, getting up, scuffled a short
time. Then, it occurring to him that here was an
unhoped for way of getting a dinner, and being lodged
after all in the bureau de police, he suddenly became
passive and complaisant.
Arrived at the police-station — with several revolts
against the brutal handling to which he was subjected
— he was met at the door by the same inhospitable
man. Exasperated beyond measure at this unwel-
come guest turning up again, the man sent his com-
rade into the office to report, while he held Kreisler.
He held him as a restive horse is held, and jerked him
several times against the wall, as if he had been
showing signs of resistance.
Two men, one that he had formerly seen, came and
looked at him. No effort was made to discover if he
were really at fault or not. By this time they were
,quite convinced that he was a desperate character,
and if not a spy, then anyway a murderer, although
they were inclined to regard him as a criminal mystery.
At all events they no longer could question his right
to a night's lodging.
Kreisler was led to a cell, given some bread and
water at his urgent request, and left alone.
On the following morning he was taken up before
the commissaire de police. When Kreisler was
brought in, this gentleman had just finished cross-
examining for the fifteenth time the two German
carpenters who were retained as spies. They were
not let alone for an instant. They would be dragged
out of their cells three times in the course of an after-
noon, as often as a new and brilliant idea should
strike one of the numerous staff of the police-station.
279
They would be confronted with their foot-rules, and
watched in breathless silence ; or be keenly cross -
questioned, confused and contradicted as to the exact
hour at which they had lunched the day before their
arrest. The commissaire was perspiring all over
with the intensity of his last effort to detect some-
thing. Kreisler was led in, and prevented from
finishing any sentence or of becoming in any way
intelligible during a quarter of an hour by the furious
interruptions of the enraged officer. At last he suc-
ceeded in asserting that he was quite unacquainted
with the two carpenters ; moreover, that all he
needed was food ; that he had decided to give himself
up and await the decision of the Paris authorities as
regards the deed. If they were not going to take any
action, he would return to Paris — at least, as soon as
he had received a certain letter ; and he gave his
address. The commissiare considered him with ex-
hausted animosity and he was sent back to his
cell.
He slept the greater part of the day, but the next
he spent nervous and awake. In the afternoon a full
confirmation of his story reached the authorities.
It was likely that the following morning he would be
sent to Paris. It meant, then, that he was going to
be tried as a kind of murderer. He could not allege
complete accident. The thought of Paris, the
vociferous courts, the ennuis of a criminal case about
this affair, so thoroughly ended and boringly out of
date, disturbed him extremely. Then the Eussian —
he would have to see him again. Kreisler felt that
he was being terribly worried once more. Sorrow
for himself bowed him down. This journey to Paris
resembled his crossing of the German frontier. He
had felt that it was impossible to see his father. That
represented an effort he would do anything to avoid.
Eesentment against his parent had vanished. It was
this that made a meeting so difficult. It was a
stranger, with an ill will that had survived his own,
awaiting him. Noise, piercing noise, effort, awaited
him revengefully. He knew exactly what his father
280
would do and say. If there had been a single item
that he could not forecast !— But there was not the
least item. Paris was the same. The energy and
obstinacy of the rest of the world, the world that
would question him and drag him about, these
frightened him as something mad. Bitzenko ap-
pealed most to this new-born timidity. Bitzenko
was like some favourite dish a man has one day eaten
too much of, and will never be able again to enjoy,
or even support.
On the other hand, he became quite used to his cell.
His mind was sick, and this room had a clinical
severity. It had all the economical elements of a
place in which a human operation might be per-
formed. He became fond of it as patients get an
appetite for the leanness of convalescent life. He
lay on his bed. He turned over the shell of many
empty and depressing hours he had lived. He took
particular pleasure in these listless concave shapes.
His " good times " were avoided. Days spent with
his present stepmother, before his father knew her,
gave him a particularly numbing and nondescript
feeling.
He sat up, listening to the noises from the neigh-
bouring rooms and corridors. It began to sound to
him like one steady preparation for his removal.
Steps bustled about getting this ready and getting
that ready.
The police-station had cost him some trouble to
enter. But they had been attracted to each other
from the start. Something in the form of an illicit
attachment now existed between them. Buildings
are female. There is no such thing as a male building.
This practical and pretentious small modern edifice
was having its romance. Otto Kreisler was its
romance.
It was now warning him. It echoed sharply and
insistently the feet of its policemen.
After his evening meal he took up his bed in his
arms and placed it on the opposite side of the cell,
under the window. He sat there for some time as
281
though resting after this effort. The muttering of
two children on a doorstep in the street below came
to him on the evening light with melodramatic stops
and emptiness. It bore with it an image, like an old
picture, bituminous and with a graceful, queer
formality. It fixed itself before him like a mirage.
He watched it muttering.
He began slowly drawing off his boots. He took
out the laces, and tied them together for greater
strength. Then he tore several strips off his shirt,
and made a short cord of them. He went through
these actions deliberately and deftly, as though it
were a routine and daily happening. He measured
the drop from the bar of the ventilator, calculating the
necessary length of cord, like a boy preparing the
accessories of some game. It was only a game, too.
He realized what these proceedings meant, but
shunned the idea that it was serious. Just as an
unmoral man with a disinclination to write a necessary
letter takes up the pen, resolving to begin it merely
and writes more and more until it is, in fact, completed,
so Kreisler proceeded with his task.
Standing on his bed, he attached the cord to the
ventilator. He tested its strength by holding it some
inches from the top, and then, his shoulders hunched,
swaying his whole weight languidly on it for a
moment.
Adjusting the noose, he smoothed his hair back
after he had slipped it over his head. He made as
though to kick the bed away, playfully, then stood
still, staring in front of him. The last moment must
be one of realization. He was not a coward. His
caution was due to his mistrust of some streaks of
him, the sex streak the powerfullest.
A sort of heavy confusion burst up as he withdrew
the restraint. It reminded him of Soltyk's hands on
this throat. The same throttling feeling returned.
The blood bulged in his head. He felt dizzy ; it
was the Soltyk struggle over again. But, as with
Soltyk, he did not resist. He gently worked the bed
outwards from under him, giving it a last steady shove.
282
He hung, gradually choking, the last thing he was
conscious of, his tongue.
The discovery of his body caused a deep-felt indig-
nation among the staff at the police-station. They
remembered the persistence with which this unprin-
cipled and equivocal vagrant (as which they still
regarded him) had attempted to get into the building.
And it was clear to their minds that his sole purpose
had been to hang himself on their premises. He had
mystified them from the first. Now their vague
suspicions were bitterly confirmed, and had taken an
unpardonable form. Each man felt that this corpse
had personally insulted and made a fool of him.
They thrust it savagely into the earth, with vexed
and disgusted faces.
Herr Kreisler paid without comment what was
claimed by the landlord in Paris for his son's room ;
and writing to the authorities at the frontier town
about the burial, paid exactly the sum demanded by
this town for disposing of the body.j
CHAPTEE VII
The sight of Bertha's twistings and turnings, her un-
dignified rigmarole, had irritated Anastasya. This
was why she had brutally announced, as though to
cut short all that, that Kreisler's behaviour was due
simply to the fact that he fancied himself in love with
her, Anastasya. " He was not worrying about
Fraulein Lunken. He was in love with me ; " the
statement amounted to that. There was no disdain-
ful repudiation or self -reference in her statement ;
only a piece of information.
Bertha's intuitions and simplifications had not
been without basis. This " hostile version " had
contained a certain amount of hostile intention.
But Anastasya had another reason for this immodest
explicitness. She personally liked Kreisler. The
spectacle of Bertha excusing herself, and in the process
283
putting Kreisler in a more absurd and unsatisfactory-
light, annoyed her extremely.
How could Tarr consort with Bertha, she questioned ?
Her aristocratic woman's sense did not appreciate
the taste for a slut, a miss or a suburban queen. The
apache, the coster girl, fisher-lass, all that had
character, oh, yes. Her romanticism, in fact, was of
the same order as Butcher's only better.
* * * c *
Two days after the duel she met Tarr in the street.
They agreed to meet at Lejeune's for dinner.
The table at which she had first come across Kreis-
ler was where they sat.
" You knew Soltyk, didn't you ? " he asked her.
" Yes. It was a terrible affair. Poor Soltyk ! "
She looked at Tarr doubtfully. A certain queer
astonishment in her face struck Tarr. It was the
only sign of movement beneath. She spoke with a
businesslike calm about his death. There was no
sign of feeling or search for feeling.
She refused to regard herself as the " woman in the
affair." She knew people referred to her as that.
Soltyk possessed a rather ridiculous importance, being
dead ; a cadaveric severity in the meaning of the
image, Soltyk, for her. The fact was bigger than the
person. He was like a boy in his father's clothes.
Kreisler, on the other hand, she abominated. To
have killed, fte to have killed ! — and to have killed
some one she knew ! It was a hostile act to bring
death so near her. She knew it was hostile. She
hoped he might never come back to Paris. She did
not want to meet Kreisler.
But these feelings were not allowed to transpire.
She recognized them as personal. She was so fas-
tidious that she refrained from using them in discussing
the affair when they would have given a suspect readi-
ness and " sincerity " to her expression. She rather
went to the other extreme.
" They say Soltyk was not killed in a duel," Tarr
continued. " Kreisler is to be charged with murder,
or at least manslaughter."
284
" Yes, I have heard that Kreisler shot him before
he was ready or something "
" I heard that he was shot when he was unarmed.
There was no duel at all."
" Oh, that is not the version I have heard."
She did not seem revengeful about her friend.
" I was Kreisler's second for half an hour," Tarr
said in a minute.
" How do you mean, for half an hour ? " She was
undemonstrative but polite.
"I. happened to be there, and was asked to help
him until somebody else could be found. I did not
suspect him, I may say, of meaning to go to such
lengths."
" What was the reason of it all — do you know ? "
"According to Kreisler, they had done some
smacking earlier in the day "
"Yes. Herr Kreisler met Soltyk and myself. I
think that Soltyk then was a little in the wrong."
" I dare say."
Tarr's sympathies were all with Kreisler. He had
never been attracted by Poles, and as such rather than
a Eussian he thought of Soltyk. Deep square races
he preferred. And Kreisler was a clumsy and de-
generate atavism bringing a peculiarity into too
elastic life.
Some of Tarr's absurd friendliness for Bertha
flowed over on to her fellow-countryman.
Had Anastasya more of a hand in the duel than he
would naturally believe ? Her indifference to Soltvk's
death, and her favouring Kreisler, almost pointed to
something unusual. Kreisler's ways were still
mysterious !
That was all they said about the duel. As they
were finishing the meal, after turning her head
towards the entrance door, Anastasya remarked,
with mock concern :
" There is your fiancee. She seems rather upset."
Tarr looked towards the door. Bertha's white
face was close up against one of the narrow panes,
above the lace curtain. There were four and a half
285
feet of window on either side of the door. There
were so many objects and lights in the front well of
the shop that her face would not be much noticed in
the corner it had chosen.
Her eyes were round, vacant, and dark, the features
very white and heavy, the mouth steadily open in
painful lines. As he looked the face drew gradually
away, and then disappeared into the melodramatic
night. It was a large trapped fly on the pane. It
withdrew with a glutinous, sweet slowness. The
heavy white jowl seemed pulling itself out of some
fluid trap where it had been caught like a weighty
body.
Tarr knew how the pasty flesh would nestle against
the furs, the shoulders swing, the legs move just as
much as was necessary for progress, with no movement
of the hips. Everything about her in the chilly night
would give an impression of warmth and system. The
sleek cloth fitting the square shoulders tightly, the
underclothes carefully tight as well, the breath from
her nostrils the slight steam from a contented machine.
He caught Anastasya's eye and smiled.
11 Your fiancee is pretty," she said, pretending that
was the answer to the smile.
" She's not my fiancee. But she's a pretty girl."
" Oh, I understood vou were engaged "
" No."
" It's no good," he thought. But he must spare
Bertha in future such discomforting sights.
286
PART VII
SWAGGEE SEX
OHAPTEE I
Bertha was still being taken in carefully prepared
doses of an hour a day : from half -past four to a
quarter to six. Any one else would have found this
much of Bertha insupportable under any conditions.
But Tarr's eccentric soul had been used to such far
greater doses that this was the minimum he con-
sidered necessary for a cure.
Tarr came to her every day with the regularity of
an old gentleman at a German " Bad " taking his
spring water at the regulation hour. But the cure
was finishing. There were signs of a new robustness,
(hateful to her) equivalent to a springy walk and a
contented and sunny eye, that heralded departure.
His daily visits, with their brutal regularity, did her
as much harm as they did him good.
The news of Soltyk's death, then Kreisler's, affected
the readily melodramatic side of her nature peculiarly.
Death had made himself de la partie. Kreisler had
left her alone for a few days. This is what had
occupied him. The sensational news, without actu-
ally pushing her to imitation, made her own case,
and her own tragic sensations, more real. They had
received, in an indirect and cousin-thrice-removed
sort of way, the authority of Death. Death — real
living Death — was somewhere on the scene. His
287
presence was announced, was felt. He had struck
down somebody among them.
In the meantime this disposed of Kreisler for ever.
Tarr as well appeared to feel that they were left in
tSte-d-tSte. A sort of chaperon had been lost in
Kreisler. His official post as protector or passive
" obstacle " had been a definite status. If he stayed
on, it would have to be as something else. On the
day on which the news of Kreisler's end arrived, he
talked of leaving for England. Her more drawn face,
longer silences, sharp glances, once more embarrassed
him.
He did not go to England at once. In the week or
two succeeding his meeting with Anastasya in the
restaurant he saw her frequently. So a chaperon
was found. Bertha was officially presented to her
successor. When she learnt that Anastasya had
been chosen, her energy reformed. She braced herself
for a substantial struggle.
The apparition at the window of the restaurant
was her first revived activity.
CHAPTEE II
On August the tenth Tarr had an appointment
with Anastasya at his studio in Montmartre. They
had arranged to dine in Montmartre. It was
their seventh meeting. He had just done his daily
cure. He hurried back and found her lounging
against the door, reading the newspaper.
" Ah, there you are ! You're late, Mr. Tarr."
" Am I ? I'm sorry. Have you been waiting
long ? "
" Not very. Fraulein Lunken "
" She — I couldn't get away."
" No, it is difficult to get away, apparently."
He let her in. He was annoyed at the backward-
ness of his senses. His mind stepped in, determined
to do their business for them. He put his arm round
288
her waist, and planting his lips fully on hers, began
kissing her. He slipped his hands sideways beneath
her coat, and pressed an athletic, sinuous hulk
against him. The various bulging and retreating
contact of her body brought monotonous German
reminders.
It was the first time he had kissed her. She
showed no bashfulness or disinclination, but no
return. Was she in the unfortunate position of an
unawakened mass ; and had she so rationalized her
intimate possessions that there was no precocious
fancy left until mature animal ardour was set up?
He felt as though he were embracing a tiger, who was
not unsympathetic, but rather surprised. Perhaps
he had been too sudden. He ran his hand upwards
along her body. All was statuesquely genuine. She
took his hand away.
" We haven't come to that yet," she said.
" Haven't we ! "
11 1 didn't think we had."
Smiling at each other, they separated.
' ' Let me take your coat off. You'll be hot in here. ' '
Her coat was all in florid redundancies of heavy
cloth, like a Tintoretto dress. Underneath she was
wearing a very plain dark blouse and skirt, like a
Working girl, which exaggerated the breadth and
straightness of her shoulders. Not to sentimentalize
it, she had open-work stockings on underneath, such
as the genuine girl would have worn on her night out,
at one and eleven-three the pair.
" You look very well," Tarr said.
" I put these on for you."
Tarr had, while he was kissing her, found his senses
again. They had flared up in such a way that the
reason had been offended, and resisted. Hence some
little conflict. They were not going to have the
credit !
He became shy. He was ashamed of his sudden
interest, which had been so long in coming, and
instinctively hid it. He was committed to the rdle
of a reasonable man.
289 t
C 'I am very flattered at your thinking of me in
that way. I am afraid I do not deserve "
" I want you to deserve, though. You are absurd
about women. You are like a schoolboy ! "
" Oh, you've noticed that ? "
" It doesn't require much "
She lay staring at him in a serious way. Squashed
up as she was lying, a very respectable bulk of hip
filled the space between the two arms of the chair,
not enough to completely satisfy a Dago, but too
much to please a dandy of the west. He compared
this opulence with Bertha's and admitted that it
outdid his fiancee's. He did this childish measuring
in the belief that he was not observed.
" You are extremely recalcitrant to intelligence,
aren't you % " she said.
" In women, you mean % "
" Yes."
11 1 suppose I am. My tastes are simple."
" I don't know anything about your tastes, of
course. I'm guessing."
" You can take it that you are right."
He began to feel extremely attracted to this
intelligent head. He had been living for the last
week or so in the steady conviction that he should
never get the right sensual angle with this girl. It
was a queer feeling, after all, to see his sensuality
speaking sense. He would marry her.
" Well," she said, with pleasant American accent
in speaking English, "I feel you see some disability in
sensible women that does not exist. It doesn't irritate
you too much to hear a woman talking about it ? "
" Of course not — you. You are so handsome.
I shouldn't like it if you were less so. Such good
looks " (he rolled his eyes appreciatively) " get us
out of arty coldness. You are all right. The worst
of looks like yours is that sense has about the same
effect as nonsense. Sense is a delightful anomaly
just as rot would be ! You don't require words or
philosophy. But they give one a pleasant tickling
all the same."
290
" I am glad you are learning. However, don't
praise me like that. It makes me a little shy. I know
how you feel about women. You feel that good
sense gets in the way."
11 It interferes with the senses, you mean % I don't
think I feel that altogether "
" You feel I'm not a woman, don't you ? Not
properly a woman, like your Bertha. There's no
mistake about her ! "
" One requires something unconscious, perhaps.
I've never met any woman who interested me but
was ten times more stupid than I. I want to be alone
in those things. I like it to be subterranean as well."
" Well, I have a cave ! I've got all that, too.
I promise you."
Her promise was slow and lisping. Tarr once more
had to deal with himself.
"I — am — a woman; not a man. That is the fact."
("Fact" was long and American.) "You don't
realize that — I assure you I am ! " She looked at
him with a soft, steady smile, that drew his gaze and
will into her, ra/ther than imposed itself on him.
" I know." He felt that there was not much to
say.
/ " No, you know far less than you think. See here ;
I set out thinking of you in this way — ' Nothing but
a female booby will please that man ! ' I wanted to
please you, but I couldn't do it on those lines. I'm
going to make an effort along my own lines. You
are like a youngster who hasn't got used to the taste
of liquor ; you don't like it. You haven't grown up
yet. I want to make you drunk and see what
happens ! "
She had her legs crossed. Extremely white flesh
showed above the black Lisle silk, amidst linen as
expensive as the outer cloth was plain. This clever
alternating of the humble and gorgeous ! Would
the body be plain ! The provocation was merely a
further argument. It said, " Young man, what is
there you find in your Bertha that cannot be provided
along with superior sense ? " His Mohammedan eye
291
did not refuse the conventional bait. His butcher's
sensibility pressed his fancy into professional details.
What with her words and her acts he was in a state
of strong confusion.
She jumped up and put on her coat, like a ponderous
curtain showering down to her heels. Peep-shows
were ended !
" Come, let's have some dinner. I'm hungry.
We can discuss this problem better after a beefsteak ! "
A Porterhouse would have fitted, Tarr thought.
He followed obediently and silently. He was glad
that Anastasya had taken things into her hands.
The positions that these fundamental matters got
him into ! Should he allow himself to be overhauled
and reformed by this abnormal beauty ? He was
not altogether enjoying himself. He felt a ridiculous
amateur. He was a butcher in his spare moments.
This immensely intellectual ox, covered with prizes
and pedigrees, overwhelmed him. You required not
a butcher, but an artist, for that ! He was not an
artist in anything but oil-paint. Oil-paint and meat
were singularly alike. They had reciprocal poten-
tialities. But he was afraid of being definitely
distracted.
The earlier coldness all appeared cunning : his
own former coldness was the cunning of destiny.
He felt immensely pleased with himself as he
walked down the Boulevard Clichy with this perfect
article rolling and sweeping beside him. No bour-
geoise this time ! He could be proud of this anywhere !
Absolute perfection ! Highest quality obtainable.
" The face that launched a thousand ships." A
thousand ships crowded in her gait. There was
nothing highfalutin about her, Burne-Jonesque,
Grail-lady, or Irish-romantic. Perfect meat, perfect
sense, accent of Minnesota, music of the Steppes !
And all that was included under the one inadequate
but pleasantly familiar heading, German. He became
more and ^ more impressed with what was German
about her.
He took her to a large, expensive, and quiet
292
restaurant. They began with oysters. He had
never eaten oysters before. Prudence had prevented
him. She laughed very much at this.
" You are a savage, Tarr ! " The use of his sur-
name was a tremendous caress. " You are afraid of
typhoid, and your palate is as conservative as an ox's.
Give me a kiss ! "
She put her lips out ; he kissed them with solemnity
and concentration, adjusting his glasses afterwards.
They discussed eating for some time. He dis-
covered he knew nothing about it.
" Why, man, you never think ! "
Tarr considered. " No, I'm not very observant in
many things. But I have a defence. All that part
of me is rudimentary. But that is as it should be."
" How— as it should be % "
" I don't disperse myself. I specialize on neces-
sities."
" Don't you caU food ? "
" Not in the way you've been considering it.
Listen. Life is art's rival and vice versa."
" I don't see the opposition."
" No, because you mix them up. You are the
archenemy of any picture."
" I ! Nonsense ! But art comes out of life, in
any case. What is art ? "
" My dear girl — life with all the nonsense taken
out of it. Will that do ? "
" Yes. But what is art — especially ? " She in-
sisted with her hands on a plastic answer. " Are we
in life, now ? What is art ? "
" Life is anything that could live and die. Art is
peculiar ; it is anything that lives and that yet you
cannot imagine as dying."
"Why cannot art die? If you smash up a statue,
it is as dead as a dead man."
" No, it is not. That is the difference. It is the
God, or soul, we say, of the man. It always has
existed, if it is a true statue."
" But cannot you say of some life that it could not
die ? "
293
" No, because in that case it is the real coming
through. Death is the one attribute that is peculiar
to life. It is the something that it is impossible to
imagine in connexion with art. Eeality is entirely
founded on this fact, that of Death. All action
revolves round that, and has it for motif. The
purest thought is totally ignorant of death. Death
means the perpetual extinction of impertinent sparks.
But it is the key of life."
"But what is art% You are talking about it as
though I knew what it was ! "
" What is life, do you know ? Well, I know what
art is in the same way."
" Yes, but I ask you as a favour to define it for
me. A picture is art, a living person is life. We
sitting here are life ; if we were talking on a stage
we should be art. How would you define art ? "
" Well, let's take your example. But a picture,
and also the actors on a stage, are pure life. Art is
merely what the picture and the stage-scene represent,
and what we now, and any living person as such, only,
do not. That is why you can say that the true
statue can be smashed, and yet not die."
" Still, what is it 1 What is art ? "
"It is ourselves disentangled from death and
accident."
" How do you know ? "
" I feel that is so, because I notice that that is the
essential point to grasp. Death is the thing that
differentiates art and life. Art is identical with
the idea of permanence. It is a continuity and
not an individual spasm. Life is the idea of the
person."
Both their faces lost some of their colour, hers
her white, his his yellow. They flung themselves
upon each other like waves. The fuller stream came
from him.
" You say that the actors on the stage are pure life,
yet they represent something that we do not. But
' all the world's a stage,' isn't it? So how do we not
also stand for that something ? "
294
" Yes, life does generally stand for that something
too ; but it only emerges and is visible in art."
" Still I don't know what art is ! "
"You ought to by this time. However, we can
go further. Consider the content of what we call art.
A statue is art, as you said ; you are life. There is
bad art and bad life. We will only consider the good.
A statue, then, is a dead thing; a lump of wood or
stone. Its lines and masses are its soul. Anything
living, quick and changing, is bad art, always ; naked
men and women are the worst art of all, because
there are fewer semi-dead things about them. The
shell of the tortoise, the plumage of a bird, makes
these animals approach nearer to art. Soft, quivering
and quick flesh is as far from art as an object can be."
" Art is merely the dead, then ? "
" No, but deadness is the first condition of art.
A hippopotamus's armoured hide, a turtle's shell,
feathers or machinery on the one hand ; that opposed
to naked pulsing and moving of the soft inside of life,
along with infinite elasticity and consciousness of
movement, on the other.
" Deadness, then," Tarr went on, " in the limited
sense in which we use that word is the first condition
of art. The second is absence of soul, in the senti-
mental human sense. The lines and masses of the
statue are its soul. No restless, quick, flame-like ego
is imagined for the inside of it. It has no inside.
This is another condition of art ; to have no inside,
nothing you cannot see. Instead, then, of being
something impelled like a machine by a little egoistic
fire inside, it lives soullessly and deadly by its frontal
lines and masses."
Tarr was developing, from her point of view, too
much shop. She encouraged him, however, imme-
diately.
" Why should human beings be chiefly represented
in art ? "
" Because what we call art depends on human
beings for its advertisement. As men's ideas about
themselves change, art should change too."
295
They had waded through a good deal of food while
this conversation had been proceeding. She now
stretched herself, clasping her hands in her lap. She
smiled at Tarr as though to invite him to smile too,
at her beautiful, heavy, hysterical anatomy. She
had been driving hard inscrutable Art deeper and
deeper into herself. She now drew it out and showed
it to Tarr.
" Art is paleozoic matter, dolomite, oil-paint, and
mathematics ; also something else. Having estab-
lished that, we will stick a little flag up and come
back another day. I want to hear now about life.
But do you believe in anything ? "
Tarr was staring, suspended, with a smile cut in
half, therefore defunct, at the wall. He turned his
head slowly, with his mutilated smile, his glasses
slanting in an agreeably vulpine way.
" Believe in anything ? I only believe in one
thing, pleasure of taste. In that way you get back
though, with me, to mathematics and paleozoic
times, and the coloured powders of the earth."
Anastasya ordered a gateau reine de Samothrace.
" Eeine de Samothrace ! Eeine de Samothrace ! "
Tarr muttered. "Donnez-moi une omelette au
rhum."
Tarr looked at her for some time in a steady,
depressed way. What a treat for his eyes not to be
jibing ! She held all the imagery of a perfect world.
There was no pathos anywhere in her form. Kind-
ness — bestial kindness — would be an out-of-work in
this neighbourhood. The upper part of her head
was massive and intelligent. The middle of her body
was massive and exciting. There was no animalism
out of place in the shape of a weight of jaw. The
weight was in the head and hips. But was not this
a complete thing by itself ? How did he stand as
regards it ? He had always been sceptical about
perfection. Did she and he need each other ? His
steadfast ideas of the flower surrounded by dung
were challenged. She might be a monotonous
abstraction, and, if accepted, impoverish his life.
296
She was the summit, and the summit was narrow.
Or in any case was not ugliness and foolishness the
richest soil ? Irritants were useful though not
beautiful. He reached back doubtfully towards his
bourgeoise. But he was revolted as he touched that
mess, with this clean and solid object beneath his
eyes. He was not convinced, though, that he was on
the right road. He preferred a cabin to a palace, and
thought that a villa was better for him than either,
but did not want to order his life so rigidly as that.
- " What did you make of Kreisler's proceedings % "
she asked him.
" In what way do you mean % "
11 Well, first — do you think he and Bertha — got on
very well % "
" Do you mean was Bertha his mistress % I
should think not. But I'm not sure. That isn't
very interesting, is it ? "
" Kreisler is interesting, not Bertha, of course."
" You're very hard on Bertha."
She put her tongue out at him and wrinkled up
her nose.
A queen, standing on her throne, was obtruding her
" unruly member."
" What were Kreisler's relations with you, by the
/way % " he asked blankly.
Her extreme freedom with himself suggested
possible explanations of her manner in discussing
Soltyk's death at the time.
" My relations with Kreisler consisted in a half-
hour's conversation with him in a restaurant, and
that was all. I spoke to him several times after that,
but only for a few minutes. He was very excited
the last time we met. I have a theory that his duel
and general behaviour was due to unrequited passion
for me. Tour Bertha, on the other hand, has a
theory that it was due to unrequited passion for Tier.
I wondered if you had any information that might
support her case or mine."
" No. I know nothing about it. I hold, myself,
a quite different theory."
297
" What is that ! That he was in love with you % "
"My theory has not the charming simplicity of
your theory or Bertha's. I don't believe that he
was in love with anybody. I believe, though, that
it was a sex-tumult of sorts "
" What is that ? "
" You want to hear my theory ? This is it. I
believe that all the fuss he made was an attempt to
get out of Art back into life again, like a fish flopping
about who had got into the wrong tank. It would
be more exact to say, bach into sex. He was trying
to get back into sex again out of a little puddle of Art
where he felt he was gradually expiring. What
I mean is this. He was an art student without any
talent, and was leading a dull, slovenly existence
like thousands of others in the same case. He was
very hard up. Things were grim that way too. The
sex-instinct of the average man, then, had become
perverted into a silly false channel. Or it might be
better to say that his elementary art-instinct had
been rooted out of sex and one or two other things,
where it was both useful and ornamental, and
naturally flourished, and had been exalted into a
department by itself, where it bungled and wrecked
everything. It is a measure the need of which
hits the eye in these days to keep the art-instinct of
the run of men in its place. These art-spirits should
be kept firmly embedded in sex, in fighting, and in
affairs. The nearest the general run of men can get
to Art is Action. Eeal, bustling, bloody action is
what they want ! Sex is their form of art : the battle
of existence in enterprise, Commerce, is their picture.
The moment they think or dream you get an immense
weight of cheap stagnating passion that becomes a
menace to the health of the world. A " cultured "
nation is as great a menace as a " free " one. The
answer to the men who object to this as high-handed
is plain enough. You must answer : ISTo man's claim
is individual ; the claim of an exceptional being is that
of an important type or original — is an inclusive claim.
The eccentric Many do not matter. They are the
298
individuals. And anyway Goddam economy in any
shape or form ! Long live Waste ! Curse the
principle of Humanity ! Mute inglorious Miltons are
not mute for God-in-Heaven. They have the Silence.
Bless Waste, Heaven bless Waste ! Hoch Waste ! "
" I'll drink to that ! " said Anastasya, raising her
glass. "Here's to Waste! Hoch!" Tarr drank
this toast with gusto.
" Here's to Waste ! " he said loudly. " Waste
yourselves, pour yourselves out, let there be no High-
Men except such as happen ! Economy is sedition.
Drink your blood if you have no wine ! But waste ;
fling out into the streets ; never count your yarn.
Accept fools, compromise yourselves with the poor
in spirit, fling the rich ones behind you ; live like
the lions in the forests with fleas on your back. Down
with the Efficient Chimpanzee ! "
Anastasya' s eyes were bloodshot with the gulp
she had taken to honour Waste. Tarr patted her
on the back.
" There are no lions in the forests ! " she hiccuped,
patting her chest. " You're pulling my leg."
They got to their coffee more or less decorously.
But Tarr had grown extremely loquacious and
expansive in every way. He began slapping her
/thighs to emphasise his points, as Diderot was in the
habit of doing with the Princesse de Cl&ves. After
that he began kissing her, when he had made a par-
ticularly successful remark, to celebrate it. Their
second bottle of wine had put many things to flight.
He lay back in his chair in prolonged bursts of
laughter. She, in German fashion, clapped her hand
over his mouth, and he seized it with his teeth and
made pale shell-shapes in its brown fat.
In a caf£ opposite the restaurant, where they next
went, they had further drinks.
They caressed each other's hands now as a matter
of course ! Indifferent to the supercilious and bitter
natives, they became lost in lengthy kisses, their
arms round each other's necks. In a little cave of
intoxicated affection, a conversation took place.
299
Have you had dealings with many-
What's that you say, dear ! " she asked with
eager, sleepy seriousness. The " dear " reminded
him of aecostings in the streets.
" Have you been the mistress of many men ? "
" No, of course not. Only one. He was a Bussian."
" What's that got to do with it ? "
" What did you say ? "
" How much did he bag ? "
" Bag 1 "
" What did the Eussian represent ? "
" Nothing at all, Tarr. That's why I took him.
I wanted the experience. But now I want you!
You are my first person ! " Distant reminiscences
of Bertha, grateful to him at present.
Kisses succeeded.
" I don't want you ! " Tarr said.
" Oh ! Tell me what you want ? "
" I want a woman ! "
" But I am a woman, stupid ! "
" I want a slave."
She whispered in his ear, hanging on his neck.
" Kb ! You may be a woman, but you're not a
slave."
" Don't be so quarrelsome. Forget those silly
words of yours — slave, woman. It's all right when
you're talking about art, but you're hugging a woman
at present. This is something that can die ! Ha
ha ! We're in life, my Tarr. We represent absolutely
nothing — thank God ! "
" I realize I'm in life, darling. But I don't like
being reminded of it in that way. It makes me feel
as though I were in a mauvais lieu"
" Give me a kiss, you efficient chimpanzee ! "
Tarr scowled at her, but did not alter the half-
embrace in which they sat.
" You won't give me a kiss ? Silly old inefficient
chimpanzee ! "
She sat back in her chair, and head down looked
through her eyelashes at him with demure menace.
11 Gargon ! gar§on ! " she called.
300
" Mademoiselle ? " the gargon said, approaching
slowly, with dignified scepticism.
" This gentleman, gargon, wants to be a lion with
fleas on his back — at least so he says ! At the same
time he wants a slave. I don't know if he expects
the slave to catch his fleas or not. I haven't asked
him. But he's a funny-looking bird, isn't he ? "
The gargon withdrew with hauteur.
" What's the meaning of your latest tack, you little
German art-tart ? "
" What ami!"
11 1 called you German aesthetic pastry. I think
that describes you."
" Oh, tart, is it ? "
" Anything you like. Very well made, puffed out.
With one solitary Eussian, bien entendu ! "
" And what, good God, shall we call the cow-faced
specimen you spend the greater part of your days
with "
11 She, too, is German pastry, more homely than
you though "
" Homely' s the word ! "
"But not quite so fly-blown. Less variegated
creams and German pretentiousness "
" I see ! And takes you more seriously than other
people would be likely to ! That's what all your
' quatch ' about ' woman ' and ' slave ' means.
You know that ! "
She had recovered from the effects of the drinks
completely and was sitting up and talking briskly,
looking at him with the same serious, rather flattened
face she had had during their argument on Art and
Death.
" I know you are a famous whore, who becomes
rather acid in your cups ! — when you showed me
your legs this evening, I suppose I was meant "
" Assez ! Assez ! ! " She struck the table with
her fist.
11 Let's get to business." He put his hat on and
leant towards her. " It's getting late. Twenty -five
francs, I'm afraid, is all I can manage."
301
11 Twenty -five francs for what ? With you — it
would be robbery ! Twenty-five francs to be your
audience while you drivel about art U Keep your
money and buy Bertha an — efficient chimpanzee !
She will need it if she marries you ! "
Her mouth drawn tight and her hands in her
coat pockets, she walked out of the door of the cafe.
Tarr ordered another drink.
" It's like a moral tale told on behalf of Bertha,"
he thought. That was the temper of Paradise !
The morality, in pointing to Bertha, did her no good,
but caused her to receive the trop-plein of his
discontent.
He sat in a grim sulk at the thought of the good
time he had lost. This scene had succeeded in
touching the necessary spring. His vanity helping,
for half an hour he plotted his revenge and satisfaction
together. Anastasya had violently flung off the
illusion of indifference in which she had hitherto
appeared to him. The drinks of the evening were a
culture in which his disappointment grew luxuriantly,
but with a certain buffoonish lightness. He went
back to his studio in half an hour's time with smug,
thick, secretive pleasure settling down on his body's
ungainly complaints.
CHAPTEE III
He went slowly up the stairs feeling for his key.
He arrived at the door without having found it.
The door was ajar. At first this seemed natural
to him, and he continued the search for the key.
Then he suddenly dropped that occupation, pushed
the door open and went into his studio. The moon-
light came heavily through the windows. In a
part of the room where it did not strike he became
aware of an apparition of solid white. It was solid
white flowed round by Naples yellow. It crossed
into the moonlight and faced him, its hands placed
302
like a modest statue's. The hair reached below the
waist, and flowed to the right from the head. This
tall nudity began laughing with a harsh sound like
stone laughing.
" Close the door ! " it shouted, " there's a draught.
You took a long time to consider my words. I've
been waiting. Forgive me, Tarr. My words were
acidulated whores, but my heart " — she put her hand
on the skin roughly above that organ — " my heart
was completely full of sugar ! The acidulated derni-
mondaine was a trick. It occupied your mind. You
didn't notice me take your key ! "
His vanity was soothed. The key in her possession,
which could only have been taken in the caf6, seemed
to justify the harsh dialogue.
She stood before him now with her arms up, hands
joined behind her head. This impulse to take her
clothes off had the cultural hygienic touch so familiar
to him. The Naples yellow of the hair was the same
colour as Bertha's, only it was coarser and thicker,
Bertha's being fine. Anastasya's dark face, there-
fore, had the appearance almost of a mask.
" Will you engage me as your model ? Je fais de
la reclame pour les Grecs."
" You are very Ionian — hardly Greek. But I don't
require a model. I never use nude models."
11 Well, I must dress again, I suppose." She turned
towards a chair where her clothes were piled. But
Tarr had learnt the laws of cultural emancipation.
' He shouted, " I accept, I accept ! " He lifted her
up in his arms, kissing her in the mass, as it were, and
carried her through the door at the back of the studio
leading to his bedroom.
" Tarr, be my love. I don't want to give you up."
This was said next morning, the sunlight having
taken the place of the moonlight, but striking on the
opposite side of the house.
" You won't hear marriage talked about by me.
I want to rescue you from your Bertha habits.
Allow yourself to be rescued ! We're very well to-
303
gether, aren't we ? I'm not doing Bertha a bad turn,
either, really. I admit my motive is quite selfish.
What do you say ? "
"I am your slave ! "
Anastasya rolled up against him with the movement
of a seal.
" Thank you, Tarr. That's better than having a
slave, isn't it ? "
" Yes, I think everything is in order."
" Then you're my efficient chimpanzee ? "
" No, I'm the new animal ; we haven't found a
name for it yet. It will succeed the Superman.
Back to the Earth ! "
" Jean -Jacques Eousseau. Kiss me!"
CHAPTEE IV
Tare crawled towards Bertha that day on the back
of a Place St. Michel bus. He did not like his job.
The secret of his visits to Bertha and interminable
liaison was that he really never had meant to leave
her at all, he reflected. He had not meant to leave
her altogether. He was just playing. Or rather, a
long debt of disgraceful behaviour was accumulating,
that he knew would have to be met. It was delibe-
rately increased by him, because he knew he would
not repudiate it. But it would have been absurd
not to try to escape.
To-day he must break the fact to Bertha that he
could no longer regard himself as responsible. He
was faced with the necessity, for the first time, of
seriously bargaining. The debt was not to be repu-
diated, but he must tell her that he only had himself
to pay with, and that he had been seized by somebody
else.
He passed through her iron gateway with a final
stealth, although making his boots sound loudly on
the gravel. It was like entering a vault, the trees
looked like weeds ; the meaning or taste of every -
304
thing, of course, had died. The concierge looked
like a new one.
He had bought a flower for his buttonhole. He
kept smelling it as he approached the house.
During the last week or so he had got into the
habit of writing his letters at Bertha's, to fill up the
time. Occasionally he would do a drawing of her
(a thing he had never done formerly) to vary the
monotony. This time there would be no letter-
writing. This visit would be more like the old ones.
" Come in, Sorbert," she said, on opening the door.
It was emphasizing the fact of the formality of the
terms on which they at present met. Any preroga-
tive of past and more familiar times was proudly
rejected.
There was the same depressed atmosphere as
the day before, and the days preceding that. She
appeared stale, somehow deteriorated and shabby,
her worth decreased, and extremely pitiable. Her
" reserve " (a natural result of the new equivocal
circumstances) removed her to a distance, as it
seemed ; it also shut her up in herself, in an un-
healthy, dreary, and faded atmosphere.
She was shut up with a mass of reserves and
secrets, new and old. She seemed sitting on them
in rather dismal hen-like fashion, waiting to be
asked to come out of herself and reveal something.
It was a corpse among other things that she was
sitting on, as Kreisler was one of her secrets. Mourn-
fully reproachful, she kept guard over her secrets,
a store of bric-a-brac that had gone out of fashion
and were getting musty in a neglected shop.
Their meetings sometimes were made painful by
activity on Bertha's part. An attempt at penetra-
tion to an intimacy once possessed can be more
indecent than the same action on the part of a
stranger.
This time he was greeted with long mournful
glances. He felt she had thought of what she should
say. This interview meant a great deal to her. His
friendship meant more to her now than ever. The
305 u
abject little room seemed to be thrust forward to
awaken his memories and ask for pity. An intense
atmosphere of Teutonic suicide permeated every-
thing. He could not move an eyelid or a muscle
without wounding or slighting something. It was
like being in a dark kitchen at night, where you know
at every step you will put your foot on a beetle. It
had a still closer analogy to this in the disgust he
felt for these too naked and familiar things he was
treading on. He scowled at Beethoven, who scowled
back at him like a reflection in a mirror. It was the
fate of both of them to haunt this room. The Mona
Lisa was there, and the Breton sabots and jars. She
might have a change of scenery sometimes ! He felt
unreasonably that she must have left things in the
same place to reproduce a former mood in him.
His photograph was prominent on her writing-table ;
she seemed to say (with a sort of sickly idiocy), " You
see, he is faithful to me ! "
She preceded him to her sitting-room. As he
looked at her back he thought of her as taking a set
number of paces, then turning round abruptly, con-
fronting him. From a typical and similar enervation
of the will to that which was at the bottom of his
troubles, he could hardly stop himself from putting
his arm round her waist while they stood for a moment
close to each other. He did not wish to do this as
a response to any resuscitating desire. It was only
because it was the one thing he must not do. To
throw himself into the abyss of perplexity he had just
escaped from tempted him. The dykes and simula-
tions of conduct were perpetually threatened by his
neurasthenia in this way. He kept his hands in his
pockets, however.
When they had reached the room, she turned
round, as he had half imagined, and caught hold of
his hands.
" Sorbert, Sorbert ! "
The words were said separately, each emphatic in
significance. The second was a repetition only of
the first. She seemed calling him by his name to
306
conjure back his self again. Her face was a strained
and anxious mask.
" What is it, Bertha ? "
" I don't know ! "
She dropped his hands, drooped her head to the
right and turned away.
She sat down ; he sat down opposite her.
" Anything new ? " he asked.
" Anything new ? Yes ! " She gazed at him with
an insistent meaning.
He concluded this was just overemphasis, with
nothing behind it ; or, rather, everything.
" Well, I have something new as well ! "
" Have you, Sorbert ? "
11 First of all, how have my visits struck you
lately ? What explanation have you found for
them ? "
" Oh, none. Why find an explanation ? Why do
you ask ? "
" 1 thought I would explain."
« We n f »
" My explanation to myself was that I did not want
to leave you brusquely, and I thought a blurred
interlude of this sort would do no harm to either of
us. Our loves could die in each other's arms."
She stared with incredulous fixity at the floor, her
spirit seeming to be arched like a swan and to be
gazing down hypnotically.
II The real reason was simply that, being very fond
'Of you, I could not make up my mind to give you
up. I claim that my visits were not frivolous."
" Well % "
II I would have married you, if you had considered
that advisable."
" Yes t And ? "
" I find it very difficult to say the rest."
" What is difficult ? "
"Well, I still like you very much. Yesterday I
met a woman. I love her too. I can't help that.
What must I do ! "
Bertha turned a slightly stormier white.
307
" Who is she ? M
" You know her. She is Anastasya Vasek."
The news struck through something else, and,
inside, her ego shrank to an almost wizened being.
It seemed glad of the protection the cocoon, the
something, afforded her.
" You did not — find out what my news was."
" I didn't. Have you anything ? "
" Yes. I am enceinte."
He thought about this in a clumsy, incredulous way.
It was a Eoland for his Oliver ! She was going to
have a baby ! With what regularity he was countered !
This event rose up in opposition to the nighfc he had
just spent, his new promises and hopes of swagger
sex in the future. He was beaten.
" Whose child is it 1 "
11 Kreisler's."
" There you are ! " he thought.
He got up and stepped over to her with a bright
relieved look in his face.
" Poor little girl ! That's a bad business. But don't
worry about it. We can get married and it can
always pass as mine — if we do it quickly enough."
She looked up at him obliquely and sharply, with
suspicion grown a habit. When she saw the pleasant,
assured expression, she saw that at last things had
turned. Sorbert was denying reality ! He was end-
ing with miracles, against himself. Her instinct had
always told her that generosity would not be wasted !
She did not tell him of the actual circumstances
under which the child had come. That would have
weakened her happiness and her case.
CHAPTEE V
When he got outside Bertha's house, Bertha waving
to him from the window with tears in her eyes, he
came in for the counter-attack.
308
One after the other the protesting masses of good
sense rolled up.
He picked his way out of the avenue with a reason-
ing gesticulation of the body ; a chicken-like motion
of sensible fastidious defence in front of buffonic
violence. At the gate he exploded in harsh laughter,
looking bravely and railingly out into the world
through his glasses. Then he walked slowly away in
his short jacket, his buttocks moving methodically
just beneath its rim.
" Ha ha ! Ha ha ! Kreisleriana ! " he shouted
without his voice.
The indignant plebs of his glorious organism rioted
around his mind.
" Ha ha ! Ha ha ! SaerS farceur, where are you
leading us ? " They were vociferous. " You have
kept us fooling in this neighbourhood so long, and
now you are pledging us to your idiotic fancy for
ever. Ha ha ! Ha ha ! "
"Be reasonable ! What are you doing, master of
our destiny ? We shall all be lost ! "
A faction clamoured, " Anastasya ! " Certain
sense-sections attacked him in vulnerable spots with
Anastasya's voluptuous banner unfurled and fragrant.
He buffeted his way along, as though spray were
dashing in his face, watchful behind his glasses. He
met his thoughts with a contemptuous stiff veteran
smile. This capricious and dangerous master had an
offensive stylistic coolness, similar to Wellington
breakfasting at Salamanca while Marmont hurried
exultingly into traps ; although he resembled his
great countryman in no other way.
Those thoughts that bellowed, " Anastasya ! "
however, worried him. He answered them.
" Anastasya ! Anastasya ! ! I know all about
that ! What do you take me for ? You will still
have your Anastasya. I am not selling myself or
you. A man such as I does not dispose of himself
in a case like this. I am going to marry Bertha
Lunken. Well ? Shall I be any the less my own
master for that reason ? If I want to sleep with
309
Anastasya, I shall do so. Why marry Bertha Lunken,
and shoulder all that semi-contagious muck ? Because
it is only the points or movements in life that matter,
and one of those points indicates that course, namely,
to keep faith with another person : and secretly to
show my contempt for the world by choosing the
premier venu to be my body-servant and body-
companion ; my contempt for my body too."
He sought to overcome his reasons by appeals to
their corporate vanity
He had experienced rather a wrench as regards
Anastasya. The swanky sex with which he had
ornamented his future could not be dismissed so
easily. He was astonished that it could be dismissed
at all, and asked himself the reason. He sacrificed
Anastasya with a comparatively light heart. It was
chiefly his vanity that gave trouble.
He came back to his earlier conclusions. Such
successful people as Anastasya and himself were by
themselves. It was as impossible to combine or wed
them as to compound the genius of two great artists.
If you mixed together into one whole Gainsborough
and Goya you would get nothing, for they would be
mutually destructive. Beyond a certain point of
perfection individual instinct was its own law. A
subtle lyrical wail would gain nothing from living
with a rough and powerful talent, or vice versa.
Success is always personal. Co-operation, group-
genius was, he was convinced, a slavish pretence and
absurdity. Only when the group was so big that it
became a person again, as with a nation, did you
get mob -talent or popular art. This big, diffuse,
vehement giant was the next best thing to the great
artist ; Patchin Tcherana coming just below.
He saw this quite clearly. He and Anastasya were
a superfluity, and destructive conflict. It was like
a mother being given a child to bear the same size
already as herself. Anastasya was in every way too
big ; she was too big physically. But did not sex
change the whole question, when it was a woman ?
He did not agree to this. Woman and the sexual
310
sphere seemed to him to be an average from which
everything came : from it everything rose, or attempted
to rise. There was no mysterious opposition extend-
ing up into Heaven, and dividing Heavenly Beings
into Gods and Goddesses. There was only one God,
and he was a man. A woman was a lower form of
life. Everything was female to begin with. A
jellyish diffuseness spread itself and gaped on the
beds and in the bas-fonds of everything. Above a
certain level of life sex disappeared, just as in highly
organized sensualism sex vanishes. And, on the
other hand, everything beneath that line was female.
Bard, Simpson, Mackenzie, Townsend, Annandale —
he enumerated acquaintances evidently below the
absolute line, and who displayed a lack of energy,
permanently mesmeric state, and almost purely
emotional reactions. He knew that everything on
the superior side of that line was not purged of jellyish
attributes ; also that Anastasya's flaccid and funda-
mental charms were formidable, although the line
had been crossed by her. One thing was impressive,
however. The loss of Anastasya did not worry him,
except magnified through the legal acquisition of
Bertha. What did he want ? Well, he did not want
Anastasya as much as he should. He was incorrigible,
he concluded. He regarded the Anastasya evening
as a sort of personal defeat even. The call of duty
was nevertheless very strong. He ought to love
Anastasya ; and his present intentions as regards his
' despicable fiancee were a disgraceful betrayal, etc.
etc. The mutterings of reason continued.
That evening he met Anastasya. The moment he
saw her he realized the abysses of indignity and poor-
ness he was flinging himself into with Bertha Lunken.
A sudden humbleness entered him and put him out
of conceit with his judgment, formed away from
bright objects like Anastasya. The selfishness that
caused his sentimentality when alone with Bertha
was dissipated or not used in presence of more or
less successful objects and people. None of his ego
311
was required by his new woman. She possessed
plenty of her own. This, he realized later, was the
cause of his lack of attachment. He needed an
empty vessel to flood with his vitality, and not an
equal and foreign vitality to exist side by side with
coldly. He had taken into sex the proeedes and selfish
arrangements of life in general. He had humanized
sex too much. He frequently admitted this, but
with his defence lost sight of the flagrancy of the
permanent fact.
He felt in Anastasya for the first time now an
element of protection and safety. She was a touch- ■
wood and harbour from his perplexed interior life.
She had a sort of ovation from him. All his obstinacy
in favour of his fiancee had vanished. With Anas-
tasya's appearance an entirely different world was
revealed that demanded completely new arguments.
They went to the same restaurant as the night
before. He talked quietly, until they had drunk too
much, and Bertha was not mentioned.
" And what of Bertha f " she asked finally.
" Never mind about Bertha."
" Is she extinct ? "
" No. She threatens an entirely new sort of
eruption."
" Oh. In what way new ? "
" It doesn't matter. It won't come our way."
" Are you going there to-morrow ? "
" I suppose I must. But I shall not make many
more visits of "
" What's that f "
" I shall give up going, I say." He shifted rest-
lessly in his chair.
After breakfast next morning they parted, Tarr
going back to work. Butcher, whom he had not seen
for some days, came in. He agreed to go down into
town and have lunch with him. Tarr put on a clean
shirt. Talking to Butcher while he was changing,
he stood behind his bedroom door. Men of ambitious
physique, like himself, he had always noticed, were
312
inclined to puff themselves out or let their arms hang
in a position favourable to their muscles while chang-
ing before another man. To avoid this embarrass-
ment or absurdity, he made a point of never exhibiting
himself unclothed.
His conversation with Butcher did not fall on
matters in hand. As with Anastasya, he was un-
usually reticent. He had turned over a new leaf.
He became rather alarmed at this himself when he
realized it. After lunch he left Butcher and went
to the Mairie of the Quartier du Paradis and made
inquiries about civil marriages. He did it like a
sleep-walker.
He was particularly amiable with Bertha that day,
and told her of his activities at the Mairie and made
an appointment with her there for the next day.
Daily, then, he proceeded with his marriage
arrangements in the afternoons, saw Bertha regularly,
but without modifying the changed " correctness "
of his attitude. The evenings he spent with Anas-
tasya.
By the time the marriage preliminaries had been
gone through, and Bertha and he could finally be
united, his relations with Anastasya had become
as close as formerly his friendship with Bertha had
been. With the exception of the time from three
in the afternoon to seven in the evening that he
took off every day to see his fiancee, he was with
her.
On September 29, three weeks after Bertha had told
him that she was pregnant, he married her — in the
time between three in the afternoon and seven in
the evening set aside for her. Anastasya knew
nothing about these things. Neither Bertha nor she
were seeing their German women friends for the
moment.
After the marriage at the Mairie Bertha and Tarr
walked back to the Luxembourg Gardens and sat
down. She had not during the three intervening
weeks mentioned Anastasya. It was no time for
313
generosity ; she had done too much of that. Fraulein
Vasek was the last person for whom she felt inclined
to revive chivalry. She let Tarr marry her out of
pity, and never referred to his confidence about his
other love.
They sat for some time without speaking, as
though they had quarrelled. She said, then :
" I am afraid, Sorbert, I have been selfish "
" You— selfish ? How's that? Don't talk non-
sense." He had turned at once to her with a hurried
fondness genuinely assumed.
She looked at him with her wistful, democratic
face, full of effort and sentiment.
" You are very unhappy, Sorbert "
He laughed convincingly.
" No, I'm all right. Don't worry about me. I'm
a little meditative. That is only natural on such a
solemn occasion. I was thinking, Bertha, we must
set up house somewhere, and announce our marriage.
We must do this for appearance' sake. You will
soon be incapacitated "
" Oh, I shan't be just yet."
" In any case, we have gone through this form
because — — We must make this move efficacious.
What are your ideas as to an establishment ? Let
us take a flat together somewhere round here. The
Eue Servandoni is a nice street. Do you know it ? "
" No." She put her head on one side and puckered
up her forehead.
" Near the Luxembourg Museum."
They discussed a possible domicile.
He got up.
" It's rather chilly. Let's get back."
They walked for some time without speaking. So
much unsaid had to be got rid of, without necessarily
being said. Bertha did not know at all where she
was. Their " establishment," as discussed by Tarr,
appeared very unreal, and also, what there was of
it, disagreeable. She wondered what he was going
to do with her.
314
" You remember what I said to you some weeks
ago — about Anastasya Vasek. I am afraid there
has been no change in that. You do not mind
that ? "
" No, Sorbert. You are perfectly free."
11 1 am afraid I shall seem unkind. This is not a
nice marriage for you. Perhaps I was wrong to
suggest it ? "
" How, wrong % I have not been complaining."
They arrived at the iron gate.
" WelJ, I'd better not come up now. I will come
along to-morrow — at the usual time."
" Good-bye, Sorbert. A demain ! "
" A demain ! "
CHAPTEE VI
Anastasya and he were dining that night in Mont-
martre as usual. His piece of news hovered over
their conversation like a bird hesitating as to the
right spot at which to establish its nesfc.
" I saw Bertha to-day," he said, forcing the opening
at last.
" You still see her then."
" Yes. I married her this afternoon."
11 You what% What do you mean ? "
, " What I say, my dear. I married her."
14 You mean you ? " She put an imaginary ring
on her finger.
11 Yes. I married her at the Mairie."
Anastasya looked blankly into him, as though he
contained cheerless stretches where no living thing
could grow.
" You mean to sav you've done that ! "
" Yes ; I have."
« why ? "
Tarr stopped a moment.
" Well, the alleged reason was that she is enceinte."
44 But— whose is the child ! "
315
" Kreisler's, she says."
The statement, she saw, was genuine. He was
telling her what he had been doing. They both
immediately retired into themselves, she to distance
and stow away their former dialogue and consider
the meaning of this new fact ; he to wait, his hand
near his mouth holding a pipe, until she should have
collected herself. But he began speaking first :
" Things are exactly the same as before. I was
bound to do that. I had allowed her to consider
herself engaged a year ago, and had to keep to that.
I have merely gone back a year into the past and
fulfilled a pledge, and now return to you. All is in
perfect order."
" All is not in perfect order. It is Kreisler's child
to begin with, you say "
" Yes, but it would be very mean to use that fact
to justify one in escaping from an obligation."
" That is sentimentality."
" Sentimentality ! Sentimentality ! Cannot we,
you and I, afford to give Bertha %hat% Sentimen-
tality ! What an absurd word that is with its fierce
use in our poor modern hands ! What does it mean %
Has life become such an affair of economic calculation
that men are too timid to allow themselves any
complicated pleasures? Where there is abundance
you can afford waste. Sentimentality is a cry on a
level with the Simple Life ! The ideal of perfect
success is an ideal belonging to the same sort of
individual as the inventor of Equal Eights of Man
and Perfectibility. Sentimentality is a privilege. It
is a luxury that the crowd does not feel itself equal to,
once it begins to think about it. Besides, it is different
in different hands."
" That may be true as regards sentimentality in
general. But in this case you have been guilty of a
popular softness "
" No. Listen. I will explain something to you.
You said a moment ago that it was Kreisler's child.
Well, that is my security ! That enables me to
commit this folly, without too great danger. It is an
316
earnest of the altruistic origin of the action not being
forgotten ! "
" But that — to return to your words — is surely a
very mean calculation ? "
" Therefore it takes the softness out of the generous
action it is allied to "
" No. It takes its raison d'Stre away altogether.
It leaves it merely a stupid and unnecessary fact. It
cancels the generosity, but leaves the fact — your
marriage."
" But the fact itself is altered by that ! "
" In what way ? You are now married to
Bertha "
" Yes, but what does that mean ? I married
Bertha this afternoon, and here I am punctually and
as usual with you this evening "
" But the fact of your having married Bertha this
afternoon will prevent your making any one else your
wife in the future. Supposing I had a child by you —
not by Kreisler — it would be impossible to legitimatize
him. The thing is of no importance in itself. But
you have given Kreisler's child what you should have
kept for your own ! What's the good of giving your
sex over into the hands of a swanky expert, as you
describe it, if you continue to act on your own initia-
tive ? I throw up my job. Garpon, I 'addition I "
But a move to the caf6 opposite satisfied her as a
demonstration. Tarr was sure of her, and remained
passive. She extorted a promise from him : to
cfonduct no more obscure diplomacies in the future.
Bertha and Tarr took a flat in the Boulevard Port
Eoyal, not far from the Jardin des Plantes. They
gave a party to which Fraulein Lipmann and a good
many other people came. He maintained the rule of
four to seven, roughly, for Bertha, with the utmost
punctiliousness. Anastasya and Bertha did not meet.
Bertha's child came, and absorbed her energies for
upwards of a year. It bore some resemblance to
Tarr. Tarr's afternoon visits became less frequent.
317
He lived now publicly with his illicit and splendid
bride.
Two years after the birth of the child, Bertha
divorced Tarr. She then married an eye-doctor, and
lived with a brooding severity in his company and
that of her only child.
Tarr and Anastasya did not marry. They had no
children. Tarr, however, had three children by a lady
of the name of Eose Fawcett, who consoled him
eventually for the splendours of his " perfect woman."
But yet beyond the dim though solid figure of Eose
Fawcett, another rises. This one represents the
swing-back of the pendulum once more to the swagger
side. The cheerless and stodgy absurdity of Eose
Fawcett required the painted, fine and inquiring face
of Prism Dirkes.
THE END
318
EPILOGUE
The artists of this country make the following plain
and pressing appeal to their fellow-citizens. I have
heard them in the places where they meet.
(1) That in these tragic days when the forces
of the nation, of intellect, of character, are being
tested, they should grant more freedom to the artists
and thinkers to develop their visions and ideas. That
they should make an effort of sympathy. That the
maudlin and the self -defensive Grin should be dropped.
(2) That the Englishman should become ashamed
of his Grin as he is at present ashamed of solemnity.
That he should cease to be ashamed of his " feelings " :
then he would automatically become less proud of
his Grin.
(3) That he should remember that seriousness and
unsentimentality are quite compatible. Whereas a
Grin usually accompanies loose emotionality.
(4) That in " facing the facts of existence " as he is
at present compelled to do, he should allow artists to
economize time in not having to circumvent and get
round those facts, but to use them simply and directly.
(5) That he should restrain his vanity, and not
always imagine that his leg is being pulled. A
symbolism is of the nature of all human effort. There
is no necessity to be literal to be in earnest. Humour,
even, may be a symbol. The recognizing of a few
simple facts of that sort would help much.
In these onslaughts on Humour I am not suggesting
that anybody should laugh less over his beer or
319
wine or forgo the consolation of the ridiculous.
There are circumstances when it is a blessing. But
the worship of the ridiculous is the thing that should
be forgone. The worship (or craze, we call it) of
Charlie Chaplin is a mad substitution of a chaotic
tickling for all the other more organically important
ticklings of life.
Nor do I mean here that you or I, if we are above
suspicion in the matter of those other fundamentals,
should not allow ourselves the little scurvy totem of
Charlie on the mantlepiece. It is not a grinning face
we object to but a face that is mean when it is serious
and that takes to its grin as a duck takes to water.
We must stop grinning. You will say that I do not
practise what I preach. I do : for if you look closely
at my grin you will perceive that it is a very logical
and deliberate grimace.
P. Wyndham Lewis
1915
FEINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS, WEST NORWOOD, LONDON
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